Once More the Minister 2

It seems the real triumph of our age has been our ongoing movement
Away from harm – its many sources more than its pain; from dark alleys –
Its stealth more than its assassins; from descent – the anticipation of demise
More than the demise. Nature has been quick to compensate, now
Sends the wind to deliver its judgement. We now die without
Moving from our beds. The only remaining torture: our hearts
And our quiet ways of remembering. These we will always endure.
Notice, in an evening ripened by cold weather, when the clouds
Have moved elsewhere, and the sky, baring all of its ammunition,
Dazzling and infinite, has shot us down with unbearable longing,
Those of us with distance between our many loves
Cannot do anything as delicate as bend.

-E.J. Galang