I've been a little shielded, or have shielded myself, from what has been happening in the US (glancing at headlines but never clicking, skimming the mood from comments that froth to the top of the boil, the end-of-semester grind being the facile excuse.) I'm beginning to read, carefully,r the reports and commentaries on Baltimore. One feels more and more that this is not the America I had known (or has it always been but I'd never seen?)

What Kind of Times Are These
By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.