Smudge impression 
of a strange low sun. 
 
Not the Impression, 
Sunrise of Monet,
 
but the same sick sky
and dim orange gray.
 
Not a newly rendered gesture 
of luminance in a revitalized world,
 
but one of setting, of burning down. 
The Golden State, the West, in flames.
 
The whole country coughing,
fearing infection, fearing neighbors. 
 
Fires deliberately set in the cities—raging up 
after gunning down. Bent knee like a boot 
 
on the neck, then a million bent knees on the streets 
in protest. The “haves” awakening at last
 
to injustice by design, while half-unmasked, 
all cliché, The Orange Villain of Ignorance
 
invents a hazy narrative of greatness. 
That ridiculous veil. This snow of ash.
 
It seems a projection, a dream-world 
play that no one would believe. 
 
What act are we in now, 
in this absurdist tragedy?
 
A slow ride down a garish escalator 
surrounded by hired actors who were 
 
cast as a rapt supporters—was all that 
spectacle merely Chekhov’s gun
 
being hung on the wall, finally firing 
these four years later? Or is this scrim 
 
thickening into a curtain meant to 
foreshadow some bleaker ending to come?
 
“We did this to ourselves,”
will be the brief epilogue.
 
A third of the audience nods and claps, 
ready to exit as if on cue. Some stand
 
down and stand by, ready to rush the stage.
A few shake their fists, raise their voices 
 
and take to the streets. The rest sit 
on their hands. The news comes in
 
rants and tweets, but all of us are forced 
to breathe this dirty air, full of fear, 
 
accusations, claims of false facts—all ingested 
through implicit prisms and hacking 
 
to gain control and extrude. Our turning.
These windows are not our only filters. 
 
Also, the masks, homemade. 
The smoke now hanging between us—
 
grim residue of houses, trees, 
hillsides, incinerated animals
 
who died afraid. 
And all the lies.
 
And our burning. 
And our burning eyes.