Here’s the situation:
-the scab has been ripped off wounding white racism,
-the Gulf Coast is ravaged by hot ocean hurricanes,
-the parched forests of California are fevered with fire,
-covid-19 is ravaging the planet cough by cough,
-right-winged militias have sensed permission,
I am on the shore of a lake in northern Georgia.
the mist rises from the water,
leaves rustle in the breeze.
I feel the urge to write a poem;
a beautiful poem,
lovely language,
lovely thought.
Then lightning strikes from the neural mass in my skull,
thunders as a prophet caught between grief and grief,
demanding unmitigated relevance.
I crumple my paper.
I put down my pen.