You'd never know from looking at the line
What's in those many faces,
Words, of course, in many languages,
But the import is the same whether one
understands them or not:
They are lost, as they fidget and tighten
their clothes for effect.
They sit immobile, stranded inside their minds,
As if there's nothing they can do,
As if the wait is worse than dying.
And nothing comes out to speak
Of what this is, or who they are,
And what they wait for doesn't save them.
The palo verde trees nearby, however,
Ruffle their yellow leaves,
The branches sway like a plea to the Lord —
A consecrating voice reverberates
That no one seems to notice.
