A Slow Hot Wind

We will be
invigorated by (the coming
authoritarian state) the stress, 

my restlessness.  

In Summer, 

there are enough bad dreams

to go around.  You knew 

the horror, the illegitimate existence.  

But only children are innocent.

You remember--I know--

the backseat

of a convertible

on a country road.

 "At least some of us have the grace of our confessional to rely on…"

What remains of that pavilion?

You remember
who was the architect
who deserves all the blame?
Certainly,

we were all guilty.

Every time your mother laughed 

at your jokes, the earth's unnerving

shudder.  Its energy will amaze

us it will show

us our own

possibility.
But you were the youngest,

the white walls
burdened by the weight
of our love.  

The ear

and the eye

can never agree.

At the time, and after, still,
I feel 

my culpability.

Then there is to the other side, 

the life-sickly obligations 

of the "planned" 

child…

(More idle chatter…)

My senses
began to triangulate
and nothing
compares to the sensation
of the breeze on your face--
eyes closed,
ears filled with only the wind
and the engine--

 until...

they ask you 

a question.