The mob outside my window makes do
with a hangman’s noose.
They devour lies, they rationalize.
They dream of retribution
and obliterating targets on the ground.
Blue volts of electricity pass through them
as they pronounce sentence and make war.
(Their tongues burn and their hearts stop.)
We hobble through a world of faces.
We reach out for what is intelligible, what is visible.
We hear only the voices that are near to us.
We are locked in a bubble of our own making.
We see a rider on the horizon on a dark horse.
He is unknown to us. He is a stranger.
He wears a mask. Where has he been?
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