No one knows why we’re at war. At twilight,
a child—I cannot say if a boy or girl—shrieks
at the fire-stars flowering over the city. I close
the shades despite a quarter cup of streetlight
shining on the sill like spilled oil. Why wage
war without just cause—war for nought?
Already past nine o’clock, almost too late
for an evening walk, I carry my telephone
to pray aloud with my blind grandmother.
