And the last poem in the series is
called "The Loyal Opposition."
Now, in this third world, the butcher
tries to cut the light while it plays.
He is a weird dude because it is just a witness like my wife.
It flies away into those green hills
and bears this dark child that is accurate with smiles.
Night.
At a time like this, we can always
see this child's one-eyed dream take shape, or impeach
what we have discovered about this child's dream.
We can deal with ourselves like Hawthorne, Gothic,
though the letter is red in our soul like a bleeding rose.
Maybe tonight, reader, when darkness is just
an immense poem longing for a simpler past,
we will just resign.
I don't think so.
It's too late.