We return once more to the sketchy days
of the spoils of war, when we were
powerless, in the grip of disbelief,
howling that we were robbed, it’s a con,
scowling under the makeweight press
of the future. Restless thoughts collide
like crocodiles snapping at their dinner.
Death is a funny guy, forever waving
his lunatic scythe around, silhouetted
black against tomorrow’s mottled white
sky. Entire nations are broken, afraid,
beyond hope, past why. The noonday sun
is hot enough to fry the Rosenbergs. Let us
build more walls to hold the facts at bay.