As Bette Davis once said, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” Only in this case, a bumpy 10 days. I came again to this Robert Duncan poem, imagining a quiet and sacred place.
But this poem, by Ishion Hutchinson also seems to resonate.
They talk oil in heavy jackets and plaid over
their coffee, they talk Texas and the north cold,
but mostly oil and Obama, voices dipping
vexed and then they talk Egypt failing,
Greece broken and it takes cash for France not
charity and I rather speak Russia than Ukraine
one says in rubles than whatever, whatever
the trouble, because there is sea and gold,
a tunnel, wherever right now, an-anyhow-Belarus,
oh, I will show you something, conspiring
coins, this one, China, and they marvel,
their minds hatched crosses, a frontier
zeroed not by voyage or pipeline nor the milk
foam of God, no, not the gutsy weather they talk
frizzled, the abomination worsening
opulence to squalor, never the inverse.