Surgical Strike
The stars wink out over suburbia
another dawn has won over
a distant night.
The defeated and dead as always,
hidden between time zones,
a brief brutality too far away,
and not enough to smear backyards
and beer barns.
Upon my morning walk
I lift up my heart in song.
A soft breeze
drowns out the drone
of smart death,
the quieted blood of the gone,
leaving only
surgically dismembered voices
lilting sweetly
in this summer air,
If I look to the East
maybe a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace
thread no words.
After more nightly raids,
after the nocturnal flames,
the collateral and damaged
come to dream with us,
they come as the misplaced
and as our muted morning guests –
fortunately, we have
many soft and spare pillows.
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