THE RUINS OF NEWS
the fact of the matter? Facts don’t matter anymore.
Facts are dull. Facts crumble beneath our feet un-wet.
We insert steel rods into concrete to reinforce
the slab but the less we feel the more we forget.
What’s the use of a reasoned rebuttal of bricks
when passionate appeals reduce walls to debris?
geometry to dust? knowing it’s a cheap trick.
Raising the roof does not defy gravity.
There was a roof here once! It sheltered us, mapping
high ceilings. But now, evidence does not appeal:
a rag-man points at the ruins of news assuming
a fact is a fact if enough people feel…
MRS HUNTER (LOCKED-IN)
in our ward,
the sway of you is a reaching – anyone
from the night-shadow
of a sterilizing
moon. Bareness and corridors suggest
you look to the window blind;
the window-blind traps a look. Pruned
you are paleness.
There’s two of you
left. You are
the crudity of chiaroscuro:
an angel in a night-gown
or a crazed spinster dragging
’round the ward
the squeak of midnight-not-allowed
a mouth gaping
its trapped sap – squeak