I am sheltered on the second floor,
the house, when lit, is a fishbowl.
Helicopters never quit whirling over Providence.
They clip the air, giant locust wings, clip
and clip and clip, over gardens, greens,
sewers; when they quit, the silence of grief.
In and out of the buzz of numbness.
We live it viscerally but our experience,
not yet cold, is already cliché.
Swat teams and ambulances,
camera lights flash and rant on glass.
A horror film that replicates.
Our 19th century streets outlined
for the children’s bodies.
What a corrupted reality.