You can find it
on album covers, gang-scare
TV shows, and woven into the pattern
of rugs from Central Asia.
It hovers in flocks, always,
over the heads
of media-blast images
of happy revolutionaries.
Shall we say someday — perhaps today —
that it appears to be
more ubiquitous than doves,
or as holy to some
as the tongues of
Pentecostal flames?
It’s
a gun, after all;
a deadly weapon. A simple,
easy, nearly unjammable,
swiftly reproducible
weapon. As common,
it seems, as any
means necessary;
as useful, it seems,
as any other work of our hands.
Dark Matter 