THE SOFT MATTER
OF HARD CHOICES
We have been determined already : like a John Calvin
songbook in a dainty mid-woods chapel, these awkward
people are singing. They speak of the righteous few and
the chosen. Oh, OK. I may have heard that tune before.
It gets people nowhere to stage their own deliverance;
brings them to a branch on a dead-end tree, on with
no escape and no fruit either. Just standing there,
convinced. Down for the count : let's enumerate, it
was sure a big number, or doesn't anyone else recall?
The tent is now pitched in the street - long Civil War
battles that take place in full view of the aggrieved,
yet only the participants understand the mash : the
small cannonball, the musket-shot spray to the face.