Set it beside that gray
Proportion, a meeting-house:
Where more men face
Each other than the altar; eyes
Look level. In turn, in this
New England chapel, the clear
Windows are stained by night and day.
Under its gray
Antenna, eyes hitched
To that corrugated T
V cheek, linked
By light, each is alone;
Shuffling humanity, it sorts
Good guys from bad,
Aiming its lens
To tattoo on each brain
Its violence; alone,
We join an alloy world. …
Reflection
Reaches the gray arches,
Clean distances where eyes
May look across the way
And size up good and evil.
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