After all these years
a bass line of sadness
running through our lives
the echo of a convulsion
the sting of the wound
only comes after you see it
They were fighting over a gun
in a hotel kitchen
they were pointing to the horizon
from a motel balcony
while their friends lie wounded
They were running through the streets
beating their neighbors’ long-haired kids.
They were sleeping among the long wet ferns
when mortar fire awoke them.
The afterbirth of a movement
is often unpleasant
the anti-war movement in October
Nixon in November.
The Soviets must have been amused
at the level of passion
in our struggles
to abate their crumbling empire
but who knew back then
what the universe really looked like
inner turmoil was all we could see
in our cities, in our living rooms
made all the world
look just just like Khe Sanh in June.