Call it epidemic mass hysteria
dripping through the “aw, shucks”
futile hands that raise a barrier
in prayer to the national jugular
vein, a limp, frowning Jackson
Pollock, classify it, deconstruct
it, but never forget the practical
issues at play here, as in, wait
a minute, do we ever find out what
becomes of those beautiful dream-
ers plucked from the mind’s eye,
or are we left with nothing but our
dread, our week of stasis, disrupted
digestion that will carry any onus but
the burden of proof, I suppose, and
is it so wrong to imagine a pleasant
little slaughterhouse built on the edge
of the bleeding Soviet clouds just before
twilight, truly they have come here to
help us, “snatch” is too pejorative when
you are this weary, by God, they have
come to do the hard stuff, I shall be
only too pleased in the pod, raising
crystal hallelujahs, this invader, he has
given me my life back, given me everything!
