Can you tell me:
If words attire thought
what is thinking
when carnage is daily weather—met with an itch
to switch the channel—a call to the misnamed
Department of Public Safety to confront gun awe—
no words–but flesh is all that’s left
to cover the eyes—no camera present—no way to choose sides
between the bloodshed that flows at home—and the
blood stains on shrouds—the white spaces we can’t see—drown out all but
an unsteady heartbeat—surrendering its count—in place of solace
suffering is a predicate
we don’t see it or hear it
as news
breaking us.
