There was still a here, but that’s not where we were, continually turn-
ing our backs to something unseen, speaking with just our eyes, getting
on with work. What was our work? Our doors wouldn’t lock. We rigged
them, hung windows with sheets that broadcast our secrets after dark.
People with weapons crept like thieves through their own houses. How 
did we feel? Like a canary cramped in a cage? Or the cat dying to know
what the bird tastes like, swatting the rungs day after day, though the little
hinged door never gives? No one hid. No one ran like a dog through the
street. The moon traced its slow arc through the sky, drifting in and out of
clouds that harbored nothing.