Sunday, October 22, 2017

Fever number eighty-three

    I am ill, or perhaps just tired
    From the last hike – children
    Bickering in the other room,
    Shouting from time to time –
    Like that – liking the sound of
    Their voices never saying anything
    Of consequence – yelling with
    Fervor and conviction.  The day
    Is dark – I hear the rumble of thunder –
    Kim Jung-un threatens war –
    Heidegger is denigrated once
    Again.  I lean back – anyone seeing
    Would think I’m thinking but I’m not.
    A helicopter flies low, searching for

    Someone retarded and lost, full grown,
    Not armed – “do not shoot him” a voice
    Pleads from it moving slowly in
    Circles overhead – not thinking like me
    Walking about seeming strong –
    One who is going to reduce sounds
    In the room – Retarded man passing

    By, if he will, outside listening to the
    Voices in the sky – not wishing to die,
    Hiding in a bush each time a voice
    Goes by.  I see him by this time –
    Should I approach?  What could
    I say to assuage his fears?  He
    Will not listen or if he does he’ll

    Think he understands this
    World better than I and maybe
    He does.  I’ll leave him here
    To do his hiding in bushes
    And trees, with his
    Fear of what he is
    Hearing – weary and ill.

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