so often, when i get handed stories where people die, I go to where it happened.

 I go the place where they were last themselves, in their bodies, alive 

"why do you film the flowers, Zach? 

why do you show us the grass?

the breeze? 

the green, green leaves?" 

i want to show what it means 

to look up at the sky one last time 

i want to leave flowers for them

when I don't...

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we invented angels . 

beneath the brawn of skin
the pock of age 
spinning sweat for escape 
a purpose for craned necks
and volume for books 

we needed a shape for hope. 

indescernable from our fevered tongues
to spill us from these iron lungs
compressants quenched
and lift toward the spiraling smoke 
the ecstacy of backroom chatter 
of porch-lit memory 

we invented angels. 

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