Those endless questions pull the bobby pin out of reality;
the willies, blues, bad infinity
even the “shining truth” of politics —
nothing but a question
all stars in our flag become fifty questions
all past and futures held down by a moment.
Even Burnitdown— a dyed-in-the-wool Trumpie —
has learned to reorient by following sensation.
Her moment of doubt as recounted to WaPo:
I know I have this screw in my hand —
it’s poking my finger and hurts.
I am really here –
I’m pinching the skin on my forearm.
I know that’s a tree —
it’s shading my yard.
Or at least it’s called a tree
because that’s what I was told…
If vertigo is the only shared notion
this mourning/morning in America —
I’ll take it.