Long into our nightly inquisition
my mind fails to muster
necessary civility.
Everywhere the lines are down.
I sit and gaze at images –
shuttered windows,
steel mesh on traffic lights,
ice in every gutter of the street,
shadows moving in the corners –
as many signs for a doctor
as the divine. There a bomb
rivets the night sky
and all our childish games
burn now in
blooms of flame.
What’s that sound?
Blood-stained wings
sweeping the street?
And that smell
like a beast’s singed fur?
What will issue
from this coupling
of chaos and imagination
without remorse?
What food will nurture us
now that the lines are down?