I have been trying to reclaim
the things within my reach
according to the shouting fathers
wisdom handed down to successive
generations on television shows.
A child may be innocent
until his parents prove him guilty.
We are stuck in this moment
until we’re not
and the sun set drives us
into the river of darkness.
We breathe at the same time.
Other forms of unison are not easy.
The tea turns cloudy.
with their messages from the afterlife.
The spirit guides are crushing rocks
in the backyard and beating drums,
inviting the ground to disappear.
Everyone begins to look hard at everyone else.
We are alone under the moon
the century flowing as gravestones reappear
according to the level of the drought.
I hear the voices — the fathers
and a million others talking.
The earth has no one to call.