This fresh-washed atmosphere’s
a busy hiss, as if
we’ll soon lift off
above the clouds trudging west
along the horizon to Mississauga.
Below, those last green bursts
will turn with frost tonight
to red, orange, yellow, skeleton.
Skyward I rise among beauty and youth
into time’s mercies. We can’t hear
the hurricane sob and falter on the walls,
hunger wail through plastic-sheeted camps,
bullets splatter against the school bus,
The books absorb the terror,
infinitesimal in their great heart,
their great silence.
October 28, 2012