The sound an airplane makes
is what it means to cut the sky with a knife.
Contrails are not clouds but sutures—
scars left behind, eventually fading,
no soil in blue.
Sadly, I have no more visions.
I foresaw neither Connecticut
falling into the ocean nor
the tremulous sinkhole it bred
in my second-floor apartment.
Pelted again with
the stones of incorrectness,
I’ve had to evacuate the state.
Keep the borscht cool.
See you in November.
To narrow wins,
to wide ones,
to pretenders.
To the factory shut down
then sent away. We
welcome you back
under different rules.
Everyone got drunk
when Congress worked together.
This time it’s different,
turn the page.
The Writing of John B. Randall 