I take thee in my weakness,
on the first day of this winter
of unusual cold.
Christmas. Colleges in early recess,
their cops sent home, temporary
countermeasure to the strikes. The Election Theater
is over, we were ominously absent
from the stage. Kennedy, King,
Malcolm X are dead. My blue-eyed
Bolshevik grandfather is dead.
Today is his birthday. Beside Lovell
I watch the moon's corroded disc
advancing majestically beneath us
as we hurtle towards terminator.
I take thee in this night
whose edge is torn
by fires and promise.
Someone is fixing coffee
in the kitchen. The Latin organizer
Colorado says may be an agent
sits beside me on the couch,
watching the cathode magic
with wise old Ecuadorian eyes
that never speak. Should I give him
a present, the so-early ghost of the trust
I had longed to move in, as apology
for my years of too-wise child terror
waiting the knock on night's final door
that will come again?
I take thee in this time
of falling and confusion, and all
that divides my strength.