The spring when everything ended was when I
Could begin, the cool wind has returned, the rain, and
I no longer know these people I valued
More than my friends, and the facts I pursued
Pale before my own experience,
For some things one can only know
By looking, like Albuquerque built on a sacred ridge,
Where one could hear the pull of the underground.
The human bombs on every block have been dismantled.
The spider-web system has turned to powder on the lawns.
The dogs have stopped smelling the sulphur.
The world is waking up
To the fact, for example, that Michael Jackson
Died in 1984, and the lights are run
By the dark ones in the theatres of war
Where everything that goes on is a dream
Except for the truth that is buried, not permitted for belief,
For then it couldn't hurt you. So you're not shown
The half-human children, as they're released, beg to die,
Or how the few are dispatched with the same concealment
By which they lived. The morning you wake to is your own,
Still holding the nothing you can't let go.
