A date. Another date.
The in-between
— a belly full of snow
and miles of steel.
Why does smoke go up?
Why do bullets fly?
God’s punchline is a desert,
always has been.
Sons are the best revenge.
A potato of a portrait,
unsuitable for framing,
from some unread directory,
security pass perhaps, a string of pointless numbers all its own.
Our comic bid for safety, for control.
Fences around the volcano.
Fulfilling all that’s left of obligation.
Duty’s discharge now just standing in a line or
sitting for a picture of an autumn afternoon,
signing here and signing there
while chestless men and haridans
pronounce their empty sentences
into the emptier air.
Sadness? Resignation?
Scan it all you can
for a word from before or beyond
but all you’ll hear is
Hurry up and take the picture I have
something else to do
please
hurry up
