For Thomas Hardy
It’s late in 1995
I think of those who did survive
Who were the killers of my tribe
Disguised now in the everyday
As men and women like the rest
In Bremen or in Bucharest
Those actors whose banality
Took life with gross finality
Everything is inconceivable
Even when explicable
That we live at all
That our planet’s tranquil
Carriage holds us firm
That we never cease to dream
Of kisses warm and light
That some will kill for sport or spite
For gain from fear because they hate
Because it’s what is to be done
Because the snow is black against the sun
Let’s count the killers still alive
Who somewhere rub their eyes tonight
Walk the dog or slice some bread
Or hug a tearful child of their blood
And sleep more soundly than we hoped they would
The heart is ash upon the snow
The flesh is cinder long ago
The innocent become the slave
Has fed the oven and the grave
The deeds that burned are buried deep
Far deeper than those put to sleep
Whom they hounded and derided
Snarled at pounced upon devoured
Herded naked into showers
And at day’s end perhaps a drink
And chatter with some tipsy friend
Then fifty years around the bend
To paw and growl and pretend
9/18/95-6/8/96, 5/7/06, 5/21/06
Copyright 1996, 2006 by Maurice Leiter
Posted with permission.
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