Poetry Issue 4

   Issue 4: January - June 2005

E.J. Galang

Once More, the Minister

It seems the real triumph of our age has been our ongoing movement

Away from harm its many sources more than its pain; from dark alleys

Its stealth more than its assassins; from descent the anticipation of demise

More than the demise. Nature has been quick to compensate, now

Sends the wind to deliver its judgement. We now die without

Moving from our beds. The only remaining torture: our hearts

And our quiet ways of remembering. These we will always endure.

Notice, in an evening ripened by cold weather, when the clouds

Have moved elsewhere, and the sky, baring all of its ammunition,

Dazzling and infinite, has shot us down with unbearable longing,

Those of us with distance between our many loves

Cannot do anything as delicate as bend.