The fact of a gas chamber
is unremarkable.
Like ragweed in late summer,
giving the itch of nose,
it comes and goes,
one century after
another.
A death march is
easily foretold.
Scheherazade,
that spinner of tales,
could not be surer
of how such an incident
repeats itself.
Infinite recklessness
and chance – only
fortune swaying this
way or that, thus jay or
flycatcher turns to food
when the circling raptor
swoops.
All life is food
whether microscopic
being or the fierceness
of wood.
Only conscience
can make it evil.
A fragmented thing is
conscience, once again
under siege.
Anne's mediocre poetry 