Truth Rising 

a bolt from brown earth
the static from a balloon
hairs on end

black faces
& the blood
down in the water

scouring for the gun
but there’s no smoke

hot shells
or plumes

or otherwise

we eat a goat-cheese tart
while the newscaster
hums her dirge

another massacre
more fuel for the pyre

white ash fills the air
the snowdrift piles up

a soft curve
against the bright red door.