A pitiful century Poem by Laura Wetherington

This generation has turned out to be anthroposcenic.
So many questions burning my tongue
hot breath singeing this pitiful century until
there is no longer a disappear,

no longer a leave from this growler.
Living without regret was the first rupture.
The second rupture: regret.

Suffice it to say we woke up
from the onan underneath
the moon on our right shoulder
the sun haunting at left—

Any longer of this life is more
or less an unwelcomed Snowden—
murdered privacies between

what the witnesses mean
and what the telling can hipholster.
(A comment on administrative practices—they're inefficient,
top-heavy to the tipping point

suffering ever the source
while the eyes in silence are talking—)
We're carried by suffering

down through the hurricane season,
now in small earthquake season / the silence is pain
asleep, and we nap submerged
our troubles in waist-high water

walking in place and gulping what air
the boundary between

the how-cool river
and a life that can pick up again underground