Fight

 

Passersby turn like iron filings.
How can you be this way?
I hear it, in public,
already aware this is going nowhere.

Why should that be true?
Several hypocrites
veer away all ears.
An advanced race hidden in zeroes

may screen the light from this blowup,
all aftermath.  By then your mislaid spectacles
(the Old Look swept the '30s)
stare up through the Walking Ice.

It's a fact: nothing's lost.
A record sails by
a killer asteroid
now that you're back to a visible glare.

I don't expect to see
this disagreement again
until one breath collapses,
when everything's recalled:

my yell bouncing
off a merchant bank over the roar
of vintage cars, full choke rage
in the dress of the time.

Here's the next moment.
More feet leave the ground.
The complete tale of us
can only be told in rings.