A day without a name.
As children, we
didn't think to question it,
didn't wonder at the solemnity,
accepted as we did all things
that defied explanation.
Now, though. Count to
thirteen, slowly. Slower still.
Feel time stutter to a stop as the
seconds stretch, as the whip-
crack of bullets streaks
through the air, as everything
and anything fails to make sense.
One summer, I was writing
and sat beneath trees
leaves rumbling in the
gray wind of a future storm.
I thought of calling home, of asking
why I should know this place,
but held my peace, knowing
that the question would bring no change.
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