Far Away They Die In Our Sleep
Another dawn has won over a defeated night.
The wounded and dead, as always
are hidden between time zones,
a brutality too far away, and not enough
to tremble grills in backyards or rock local beer barns.
From the East perhaps a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
but for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace, thread no words.
The collateral and forever damaged dream for us,
the smashed-down wave hopeless arms
like far semaphore signals
they come to us now as muted morning guests;
fortunately, we have many soft and spare pillows
and they cannot disturb our rest.
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