Night Comes on like a Documentary

Under an impudent blue sky

tanks churn up the strip.

.

Everything runs uphill, even water. There’s a fractured

black line between the hours,

like a bridge. Run to cross it

.

as night falls. Guns are fired because

words cannot describe the brute force of words.

.

This scented field full of dahlias, I arrive there, see my own

ghost walking there. This BBC film,

the blossoms of gunshot wounds on mens’ shirts. To surf

.

the gentlest crest

of white. It all runs uphill,

.

even living. The documentary of sleeplessness

runs on behind the eyes of children

.
as their fathers shoot nightmares

in broad daylight.

.

.

Cassie Lewis