Where will Children Play
Their names, carved in the keel
of the vessel in which they traveled.
Their margins, our boundaries pushed
to the side in view of what really matters
in our fallible, sensitive lives, seek
a response from the unknown.
Position yourselves next to the mystery
of their music. Is child play the glimmer
that does not bond to anything,
a mirror of water, the closed curtain
in the school of human affections?
Gunshot signals the rescue,
yet you deny them entry.
A growing weakness reminds me
that there is no beginning or end in the life
of your phosphoric limbo, Mr. President.