Flying over your house again
at the end of another long year.
There are loud explosions in the night.
We feel the concussions from a distance
And across time. So many crimes
of the heart. So many tales
Of two cities. This is a kind of history
too, of all the races we entered
And all the times we scratched.
Not a wish to live again, better.
They always figure out what happened.
And innocents, next door, die in their sleep.