Whisper still–the conspiracy is not yet blown.

But in the bowels of satellites the action churns     

and at the appointed tock every cell-phone

in every purse and pocket will trumpet out together.

Then as in Jericho for Joshua the ugly walls will fall,

dusting up ashes in a plume of praise

like mushrooms slowly charging through

the leafy rubble of the rain-polished floor.

Then chant you your liturgies and holy slogans

full-throated, in full sun, with full orchestra;

then have you your children sing songs to remember;

then run all resistance through right to the sapphire hilt.

Glory!          Glory!           Glory!

But for now whisper only.

Mute your devices.

If they tremble in your purses or your pockets,

take it as a test to prove how gracefully you pick up.

Do not scramble as if ashamed.

Keep confidence.

Answer with measured silence

until…