In these times, I’d like to share with you
something of my winnowed self,
now that we have all been scourged
by flame, made essential by having
everything stripped away—every hope,
every false optimism, even the tremulous one
I felt that day in the voting booth, wearing my
Hillary-style jacket. I’d like to share with you
how it feels these days, being so hollow,
pierced to the marrow of everything indignant,
an unholy phalanx of grackles pecking
in the poisoned grass. This poisoned earth.
This poor, sad thing. Share with me
what to do next, and if you have no ideas,
share with me your love, which is nothing
and still may be the only thing we have.


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