I’m concerned about
the world we eat with our
morning cereal, let drain into
our dishes and cobble our quiet
streets. I’m concerned about
our sisters, though I have
no sister; our daughters, though
I have no daughter. I’m
concerned for what will
happen to night when it is
no longer a time for quiet
private sleeping things but for
the incubation of the broken
body and blue bruise
dream. I’m concerned
for the clothes that each girl
left lying on the floor, piece
by piece, like lost pennies (rub
for luck), while his camera
bared its eye,
and grinned.