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The Danger of Pretense

The wind ruffles a blue windsock,
slowly—it gathers the courage

to kill. I do not know
the nameless man, loved by God,
whose wife will die in the storm.

Where is the mercy? The stars
do not console the wounded,
nor the sandman the young.

The hills?
The rocks?

Why, even the storm invites our trust.

Are we a people
apart from the fury?

Today I walked around a patch of violets,
planted together in the yard,
tranquil, beside the rocky path
where their purple belongs. Perhaps
the flowers felt the peace.

I do not know.

Perhaps there was one, off to the side,
that I did not see.

First published in Domicile