I riffle,
in night’s realm
of imaginings,
through mind’s
pages of guilt,
the chapter
I stand
sidelined,
as America
tears itself apart,
as it tears apart
the world.
And I—
I can do
nothing.
Guilty,
but lament,
on pages blank,
how powerless,
in night’s
roamings,
I feel.
How margined.
How,
for granted,
I took
America’s
goodness,
so long
unyielding.
Guilty,
yet where to turn,
as my country’s
moral granite,
in my star-cloaked
musings,
fragments
in my fingers,
like so many grains
of sand?
Its once
generosity
running in
streets,
like worthless
chaff.
Guilty,
for believing,
in slumber’s
wanderings,
my country,
like so many
before us,
was ready
to embrace
a helmswoman,
who could steer
a course
that lifted hearts,
offered a vision
for how we,
and the rest
of the globe,
could navigate,
to solace
our shared seas
of humanity.
