The no one of it
is everywhere.
It is a high rise that
is itself a wall
of windows all
but one of which
half way up is dark,
rising above the locked
gate against which
a stray page of the day's
disasters has been
blown flat, trembling
against the iron
bars as if trying
to pass through or
over them, like a
fugitive the dogs
are closing in on,
wanting in, wanting
for God's sake someone
to take him in, as if
that sole blue light
above were safety,
except it isn't
safety, is it,
it's the news
on television, the same
news of the same
day--it is news
calling out to news
as pixel to print
to pixel over circuits
and atonal air ways
that someone earlier
left on before leaving
to make it seem
as if someone were home.
By Alan Shapiro