these are not champions;
these are not saviors;
these are desperate gamblers,
just looking for something new to lose,
with no hopes of winning and
no strategy to speak of.
And yet from some angles,
from far and close
you may see in them the image of God.

Faces In Glass

Hundreds of them peering down an endless, bright well,
sad men, sad women, throwing in, trying to sell
versions of themselves that have never known a sadness,
Driven forwards by a certain modern madness
of thumbs tapping, fingers swiping, a ballet for none to see,
done without knowing why, void of ecstasy.