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.