with the fine acre of destitute beginning

with a stones throw from desire

the pass is a green highway

the green is black

and the end is anticipated 

like a dream 

the sunshine tells the story 

fog is the news 

and we stare at ourselves thinking 

how can we think these thoughts 

in the face of such stupidity

we stare at our breath as it leaves our mouths 

the cold is not news 

we dial the radio 

we stream the songs 

nobody says I'll drop a dime on you 

the cold is not new 

 the rain and snow 

the buzz of the airplane 

the smoke from another room

we fill glasses with whiskey or tea

the tooled leather 

we stand on the cement and watch

the television tell us things

violence is fear

fear is violence 

we have forgotten peace 

 we have lost the war