| Heavy,
heavy, heavy, hand and heart.
We are at war, bitterly, bitterly at war. And the buying and selling buzzes at our heads, a swarm |
5 |
| of busy flies, a kind
of innocence.
Gowns of gold sequins are fitted, sharp-glinting. What harsh rustlings of silver moiré there are, to remind me of shrapnel splinters. |
10 |
| And weddings are held
in full solemnity
not of desire but of etiquette, the nuptial pomp of starched lace; a grim innocence. And picnic parties return from the beaches |
15 |
| burning with stored
sun in the dusk;
children promised a TV show when they get home fall asleep in the backs of a million station wagons, sand in their hair, the sound of waves quietly persistent at their ears. |
20 |
| They are not listening.
Their parents at night dream and forget their dreams. They wake in the dark and make plans. Their sequin plans |
25 |
| glitter into tomorrow.
They buy, they sell. They fill freezers with food. Neon signs flash their intentions into the years ahead. |
30 |
| And at their ears
the sound
of the war. They are not listening, not listening. |
|