Delve deep, they dream, into artifice.
Leaking canisters of outrage,
the reflected torpor outside every garden shed.
Signs are written and held up
at intervals, proclaiming mute wisdoms:
‘GO HOME…’ ‘BRING BACK…’ ‘AND END TO…’
They do not waste breath on the
one central chain that drags their feet
through disaster and tragedy:
Nor do they arrange words as
carefully, as they may their petunias
and geraniums, crowning their front lawns,
ears pressed listening for some change
beyond their high fences, sheltered and bordered.
Their homes behind fly the flag,
but across the sloping street they are smiled upon.
Cross-hatched, emblazoned, sinking slow
into a fiction without name or shape;
the palaces of the unchanged.