The President alights from Air Force One,
declaring we will see things to their end.
An Ancient Warrior stands before the House,
demanding no more good blood after bad.
Attorneys conjure ways to stand by both.
Meanwhile, on the Fertile Crescent, One
of five suicide bombers fails to die:
a woman who desired to be a martyr
must be content with widowhood I know
that when the pundits drag themselves to bed
they hear what I hear: fight them here or there,
fight them now or later, Our victories
are guaranteed to multiply with time
until we can no longer bear to win.
Scopes was eighty years ago, and still
the know-it-alls remain hopelessly split:
either Charles Darwin, spoiling in the cool
of God’s laconic shadow, or the Blind
Disciples who Remember Genesis
As it was Read to Them in Sunday School.
Perhaps the best-fed people on the Earth
could figure out a way to feed the poor
before it tackles How We Came To Be.
At any rate, if you will sheath your swords,
I’ll give you each a magnifying glass
and you could use your strong, self-righteous light
to search for villages of missing girls.
The Saints are all exhausted, but the thugs
are spry enough to run from packs of dogs.
The Saints are all exhausted, and the stork
cannot be lured into the feathered nest.
The Saints are all exhausted, while the sleek
and bloated cynic picks away the scab.
The Saints are all exhausted, and a judge,
forbidden to believe in anything,
is fixing to evict them from their beds.
The Saints are all exhausted. You may search
for all the things you’d like to run across,
but I must deal with everything I find.
I put them in two boxes on my desk:
what I can change, and what I must accept.