Left handed poem by newspaper editor on eve of election
My right hand is already sleeping in a dream of your hand
I look the final hour through today’s glasses
So I can focus on the details waving like grass in a wind
Of glass, the wind’s larger motion a single word
(yet the wind wants to join my hand in a dream of form
The shape of our bodies weaving a word that won’t
Come back to me) the day turns like your back
(it may never come back) and the new day wanders
In like a cat out of the dark which always means yes
As if hunger were affirmation and not direction
Translations from the English 
Outstanding, J.
Thanks, E! Here’s to election day.
This is my favourite election poem I’ve read.
Thank you! I cannot remember any other election season as strange and sometimes scary as this one.