I want to love the world but I’m tired of it
walking by me on the street and not
even waving. And making so much noise
late at night. It’s a parked car with closed-
tight windows and the radio thumping.
It’s been outside my house for weeks. How
can you think of anything else with all
that artillery? I want to love the way early
afternoon looks on the stone floor of my
office, how pollen’s dust on my windows
casts a golden shadow. But that only
reminds me it’s getting later and now I
can’t tell you what I was trying to say. The
world has interrupted me. And why should
it care about that? I want to love the world
but I’m tired. In Kyiv, the coroner burns
church incense. To each face he uncovers,
he says, How? How did this happen to you?