No difference between the incoherent muttering
of plastic poets in window sills,
and the sensical ramblings of the mad are tall
tales, anthems for the could-have-been-pills,
and the expectations of those who know-it-all.
With many new, the cities focus remains
not on the child, but the woman in the shawl,
and with a breath and scratch and the fawn
is shot, the child gone.
And we remain stuttering,
forging our lives and feigning restrain.