At last I’m free to visit Church today;
What State dare silence this ecstatic hymn?
Hallelujah, O Lord, how oft we pray
to be free—and now we’re free! Yet we brim
Is it too late for things that hope to grow?
What does it say that the sapling’s leaves
have already turned?
If life is a lucid dream or some near-perfect
computer simulation, do I risk waking up
to a world in which I can’t embrace you?
As the Enola Gay has circled overhead, I’ve gained weight,
and obsessed over coverage of its flight: Will we be spared,
or perish? What orders have been given, and who or what will the pilot obey?
We knew these would be hard years; at least we can laugh,
say I love you, watch for the flags at half-staff.