Why Geriatrics Are Not Sacrificed

It is a young man's heart the knife of stone

Puts in the Aztec's hand; heart he will raise,

Still beating, toward the god who, like the priest,

Is blood-besmeared already, as a god

Both Death and Fear. His priesthood's fear is, flint

Upon an old man's heart is stone on stone;

Might strike a spark that would ignite the world

If there were breath enough to stir the lint,

So much a fossil fuel envy is.

Young hearts an altar never lacks. Its lure's

The name of Chosen: ease and sex and glut,

Our tempting pyramid. If at the top

A dagger waits, hearts calcify below

One beat, one granule at a time toward age,

Until a sacrifice seems self-reflexive:

Hardened sternum and the stony twist,

Intransigence upon intransigence.