after almost exactly 30 years 

I return to the original cone of silence

Scooped not by time and chance but the

Actual-true-hand of God

near the plain of Megiddo

where bad, terrible, awful things have, did, and will 

Happen.

You have a tell, my dear

In all your smack talk about leprechauns and canine destinations for women

At 2:30 in the morning

the aircraft flies too loud, too close

to my insomnia 

I remember your anger is your origami armor

against the wounded you-us-story

sewn into the cloak

of every disguise you put on

in vain.