It seems the real triumph of
our age has been our ongoing movement
Away from harm – its many
sources more than its pain; from dark alleys –
Its stealth more than its
assassins; from descent – the anticipation of demise
More than the demise. Nature
has been quick to compensate, now
Sends the wind to deliver
its judgement. We now die without
Moving from our beds. The
only remaining torture: our hearts
And our quiet ways of
remembering. These we will always endure.
Notice, in an evening
ripened by cold weather, when the clouds
Have moved elsewhere, and
the sky, baring all of its ammunition,
Dazzling and infinite, has
shot us down with unbearable longing,
Those of us with distance
between our many loves
Cannot do anything as
delicate as bend.
