Joel Lane
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Election weather. Too bright to see clearly
rain waking you up in the night.
All your feelings come back at once
in a cluster, like a manifesto
with no sense of history: a rose
made up of petals from other flowers.
A dream informs you about love.
The paper men are everywhere, touching
flesh to make themselves real,
flattering the guilty and damning
the innocent with faint praise.
The soundbites are closing on your head;
there’s a stillness beneath, a May
where all your betrayals lie in wait.
They toil not, neither do they spin.
Page(s) 38
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