Tomorrow the grey geese pilot their formations south,
we pick up after the party where we said too much,
an old brown bear digs out the last late grubs, beds
down. Tomorrow we remember to throw our metal
fists into the gears of the machine, to buy compact
fluorescent bulbs and apples grown in Washington,
waxed in Mexico, at the corner store in Eugene.
Tomorrow we devise new tenses for the things
that we will never get around to: calling our dead
brothers, dismantling the IEDs, acknowledging our
complicity. Because today rushes up to us like
a flock of fleeing children, noisy and immediate,
smacking the world around with their little brown
fists. Today we do everything we can to hear them,
maybe feed them. Tomorrow, we sigh to each other
through the gathering fog, there might just be time to love.
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