
It’s not us, it’s them. It’s not them, it’s us.
You speak inviting oblivion to enter in,
casually offering nothing worth defending.
You make the mess you pretend as if
living will be enough, or is. Was then.
You hear and feel the wind.
Birds, laughing dogs, calculating cats
as you cherish children to be no different.
I hear I know not what until I listen, and
we talk. Until I sit quiet in that spot
I have always inhabited when small,
before I did, and afterwards.
You ignore me only to perfect excuses,
to refuse your knowledge: to study
scholarship, pursue war and cash rewards.
When you come to it, remembering
nothing again, those of us present offer welcome
as though nothing in the between occurred.
©Dean Baker
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