Listen to our podcast of this poem here.

Friends, countrymen, one of these men is lying and though we
care for one another, we’ll never agree about which one it is.

The smile of lying and the smile of catching another in a lie are
identical smiles.

Friends, countrymen.

Let us turn to the metaphysical sublime: should we raise the
mother to the dignity of the “thing”? I need my glasses. I need
my girls.

Friends, countrymen: the choice is clear before us: intense wind
through the night setting off sirens down the avenues, sirens
in the cars. I dreamed myself back to childhood, as if in a self
made of sand.

Made of sand on fire.

Though so rarely do we speak of love.