Because it was tomorrow
in the distant city where
the bomb went off today, we
can never place it. Something
about the light, some blindness
before conversion makes you
an eye witness after the fact
and the heat of the moment melts
the eyes of every Tiresias close at hand,
who could say something about lilac light
after vision is gone. Like falling
in love. We say my eyes melt
when I see you, and desire
twists us into some hunger to repeat
the final blow again, again, again,
again, and in the course of the long, slow
detonation no one says a word about Mescalero.
