Poems for Friday: Politics

There are some days where I just don't have the words. Today, Randall Mann's will have to do:

This is what he dreams of:

a map of burned land,

a mound of dirt

in the early century’s winter.

 

A map of burned land?

A country is razed

in the early century’s winter.

And God descends.

 

A country is raised

because of industry.

And God descends,

messengers rush inside

 

because of industry,

in spite of diplomats.

Messengers rush inside

to haunt the darkened aisles.

 

In spite of diplomats,

the witnesses know well

to haunt the darkened aisles,

experimentally—

 

the witnesses know well

that ushers dressed in black

experimentally

lurk by the cushioned seats.

 

That ushers dress in black

should tell you something:

lurking by the cushioned seats,

the saved and the terrible.

 

I should tell you something:

this is what he dreams of,

the saved and the terrible—

a mound of dirt.