Again the gunman enters. Again the children crouch Under desks with prey’s Terse stillness.
Once more the chopper angles: Lines of scurrying hostages Like pheasant before the hiss Of prairie fires.
The hack script re-cobbled Together falls now flat And horrid against our thirst For novelty.
Kyrie eleison. The world grinds its organs In ceaseless overspill— A false-calm noise.
Christe eleison. Lent has now begun; We are refugees from The gun-loud land.
Kyrie eleison. Amid clamor we crouch, Hoping at least for horror, Love’s last checkmate.