and what of the dead tumbling out of the trucks of history
and onto our streets,
sliding off the cinema screen into our laps
the outstretched arm of the tortured boy rises out of the morning coffee
a swollen balloon, once a soldier, lunges against its
string
tied to the child
and what of the dog, proudly trotting down the street
to us
something, once human, in its mouth. it
will
not
go away. these will not go away.
a fierce light seizes us all. the film scorches and burns
now the raw white now the ratchet of the empty reel
carapaces scuttle on the sanctuary floor
sirens wail “dominus resurrexit; gloria in excelcis deo.”
the heart reaching out to this world
is a tongue
each open door explains nothing
we go through
anyway