at some point
america is supported by
nothing but the bones of
goebbels’ children
at some point
the starving have nothing to eat
but each other
and august of course
dissolves into september
and a seven year-old boy is hit
by a car while playing in the street
in front of my house
and what if no one
knows where he lives?
what if dali wakes up in a
room on fire?
at some point
there has to be a distinction between
reality and art
a woman’s eyeball sliced open
or a baby found dead in
a plastic bag on a street corner
my son drawing airplanes
at the dining room table
his smile
when i tell him a joke
all of the days i’ve wasted
waiting for
the future to arrive
