invade my house,so shrill they burst the glass
from souls of souls they come
from all directions
screamers sniped, gassed,
buried in their homes,
blown into walls, thrown
into holes, every day I hear
wailings--sick, hungry,
despised for some singularity,
some disparity at birth and then
the other mourners too
whose soldiers left.
What can we do
after the postcards to Congress,
after the marches,
the all-night benders?
Crying deep rivers soothe,
somehow a gray river of tears
holds one steady,
and so does chanting
and so does rocking,
and so does cursing,
though no one beyond the lamp post
will hear or give a damn
but we keep testing.
.
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