what is left besides the arguing, the cutout clippings, agendas and news conferences, the fine powder -- a residue from the friction of ideas -- that clings even now to his upper lip so forcefully placed for the television cameras
what is left beside tending to our own and the innocents left on the battlefield, the momentum of history, the sliding panorama that will consume only what is needed for support of this side or that side, the facile black and white imagery, the warm story masking the total brutality of it
what is left is calling it a day, licking our fingers and turning the page, forgetting all that we have done, all that could have been
what could remain, through the bombings and kidnappings, the mindless murder, the hardening inside, the brute instinct for survival, the possibility of a future all but blotted out into the night sky
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