Unanticipated clouds advance, shifting the weight
of the world—or at least the measured objectives of
so many compulsory affairs—nonplussed after all
this time by their capacity to inspire, interrupt, or else
frustrate the better angels of Nature’s encumbrance.
Fathers linger absentmindedly at inexhaustible grills.
Mothers indulge in a quick cry behind bathroom doors
(more from habit than necessity). Bored children fish
in depleted ponds, muscle memory improvising
rituals handed down unthinkingly, like faiths or families.
Soldiers, acknowledged at last in their fortified shrines,
die afresh each time a bouquet drops like a shell
atop consecrated soil, foretold fates secured again,
courtesy of grim yet unconflicted officials, whose
solemn directives ensure that history echoes itself.
