Until at last the facts
saunter into the tavern,
steady tread, and order

tall, cold sarsaparillas.
And if they come masked,
mark how those masks are

the facts, unless or until
they remove them, eyes
glinting. And if they come

a-singing, hear how each
note is a fact, no matter
how high or low or long

or brief, until they all fall
silent. And if they come
on horseback, those steeds

are facts and so is each
and every dust particle
blown up by their riding.

And when they steal into
your palaces and rental
units, the stairwells will

shiver for nakedness,
reflections cast themselves
headlong, alarm systems

mum. The very contrary
of Orpheus doing his
thing. That’s just how it

is when the facts arrive,
be it any moment, next
season or maybe never.

Photo by Pablò on Unsplash.