Each must act for his or her own reasons. The wind
falters at nightfall but there’s fury in dry leaves.
Vehemence of a dream no one can remember
leaches into statistics. Flora will leave for France.
Jill stays indoors and won’t answer texts or email.
Henry oils a Glock. Duane calls Jesus. Father gulps a red pill.
With a clipboard we halt passersby, but the enemy
parrots our warning word for word—“our country
is disappearing, just a few days to save it, a handful
of corrupt rich men, a few who care enough to act”—
“The crisis began when I was born,” “it will end tomorrow,”
“I have no idea who I am,” “we’re racing into the past”—
We locked down and made love on the bare mattress.
Our freshly painted signs were drying and the room stank.
The Enola Gay left Tinian. The NKVD entered Katyn.
Once the door opened wide but no one stood in the doorway.
No one but the sky? No, no one, not even the evening star.
The cat crouched under the credenza staring.
It was long ago. We were lovers. Our silence was a wall.
