the hand is tiny
the mother history
softly
out where the pacific
comes up hard against
the bitter end of
the twentieth century
softly
where the front door
swings back and forth in
a hot breeze
and will you be
the one
to step forward and stop this
small tragedy before
its inevitable conclusion?
the answer
spoken or unspoken
is no
and you are not alone
the dogs will eat their fill
and the angels will sing
some serious fucking blues
beautiful young women will
sit at the open windows
of second story apartments
and cry
this is happening
even now
this has always been
happening
the fragile beauty of
innocence
refusing to be destroyed
with the thing itself
