Peace comes dropping slow we’re told
Innisfree as remote
as perfection
the poet’s wish to go there
as universal
as Miss America’s wish for the world
as political
as your daddy’s Britannica
no “Peace, Inner” there, only “Peace,
International”
a Peace as troubled
as “Peace, Charles (1832-1879)”
by day a gentlemen of Peckham
by night as rapacious
as War
but you must forgive the Britannica for harboring him
and his neighbors for hanging him
War is where we are