Sometimes you glide over the world below
as though you're bound by an itinerary:
first stop, the scandal of some functionary;
next up, the latest fascist puppet show.
While, in this wandering, the spirit is
acclimatizing to the agitation,
you skim The New York Times, or else The Nation,
cursorily absorbed in the abyss.
Nothing seems able to upset or bruise
your stoic semblance, as you roam the ashes,
but now, as if a hammer fell, the heart
pounds at the larynx as you read the news:
Chapecoense Soccer Team's Plane Crashes
Your hands fall slack. The paper comes apart.
Note: This poem appeared in Nimrod.