First, months

of flash, thud, shudder,

then the wailing...

                            Months,

that's half a young cat's life

Now we're up on the edge

and over, on the mountain

with mountains beyond. Behind us,

            in the dark

of the valley, villages are embers

He swears on his mother's life he wasn't there.

And if he was there

he swears on his mother's life it wasn't him.

And if it was him

After the fiftieth insult - 

the school bag down the toilet, the stifled

giggle-whisper that hung like a smear on the air - 

she suddenly saw

I spied a small lonely boy.
I was his beautiful red balloon,
from morning through to noon,

What do we do with a difference?
Do we stand and discuss its oddity
or do we ignore it?

Do we shut our eyes to it
or poke it with a stick?
Do we clobber it to death?