Black bomb blasts
at midnight bury
the sleeping,
the whispering,
the praying.
While we hide
on sweet, tree-
lined streets
in fall colors
and winter’s
white beauty,
in the laughter
of kids
and company,
in dreams
of stolen years,
in a brutal
dishonesty,
in ripe cruelties,
in serenades
of death,
in the blood
of the unseen,
in the comfort
of this poem.