The red dot was sinking
to smear the lake. It was
in soft focus, the waning light.

You want to bury
the attachment, on the bank.
Let the waves wash away―

the footprints. The
clan was in great distress.
On ventilator, the icon was not dying.

Innocence goes on the block
I will not get a fair deal
from the silence of the stone.

The disk tumbles
into obscurity. Who will
bring peace to the withering art?