JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

To you who listen to connections

between the words

 

I leave these sounds: doves on a wire

cooing to the sunrise, unaware

of conversations traveling under their claws,

a dog

 

barking its November

morning solo

in an alley

somewhere across the globe

as if it knew

 

something that shocked the world

four hours later

 

If you knew, over some connection,

the exact date of your death

would that change anything?

 

I think he knew

somehow that this could happen

I think we all know these things

 

sitting here listening to

the insane hum of

a million conversations

inside that wire

traveling at the speed of a bullet

 

hatred travels faster than forest fires

a dove can fly off in fear

a dog can cringe

against a wall

 

while the cavalcade of hate

drives past

but only humans, fingers on triggers

crosshairs centering

 

can hate enough

for that