Along the road I hear (sonnet)

Along the road I hear


Along the road I hear the wailing ones,
A song is hearsay there, a song for us,
And back in, dark as denial, our sons
And daughters are dying, a yellow bus
Has broken us and taken care of life:
And now is over, hearsay has eclipsed
The sun in us, and hot as fault, our strife,
In aftermaths to come, fall fast as chips
Will land in our very lapse: and the same
Is fate for living: as the dead complain—
Malignant eyes: shining, assigning blame;
And none are sane or safe in pouring rain,
As eyes echo hearsay, behind the line
The bus’s dents are small, and kids are fine.