Their straight and upright trunks—

Black against the gray mountain afternoon,

Under the green canopy of needles—

Make the vertical rain visible. 

 

Inside my hotel room I carry the rain 

Inside me: A soft droning in my ears. 

                                The TV delivers the world 

From various time zones: No leniency 

For the soldiers in the failed coup

In Turkey, more bodies of refugees 

Drifting off the coast of Italy.

                                        At home, in real time,

The bodies spill out of the drug war,

Fill the front pages and hourly updates.

 

They are all called “collateral” or appended 

With claims: “They fired first” or were

“Resisting arrest,” 

                             Or dismissed as “staged,” 

“Too much drama” in the social networks 

Or presidential speech.

                             “The innocents have always been

Getting killed anyway.” Or,“They deserved it.”

 

(All life or death is trivial: The unintended 

Target of a stray bullet. Or even necessary.)