I doubt that we will see the likes of this again for at least a few lifetimes.

Generations of a thin exhaustion.

I remember the river. I remember the smell of the river not unlike a slow light upon the ground held in check by rain. I remember watching kids in the river playing games. I remember the melancholy songs of the river sing with come at once.

 I do not believe a word about the pie in the sky predictions that a vaccine will work on a population of the utterly suspicious. The utterly uniformed. The utterly fearful. The utter lack of trust. This lack of trust is what disease has given us. It is also who we are.

I remember the path along the river that curled and meandered for thirty miles of the kind of sky no one has ever tasted.

One of the most ancient diseases – been around for hundreds of thousands of years – would be tuberculosis. We can regulate it to its corners, but we can’t stamp it out. We have made concessions to HIV. We can suppress it. But we can’t kill it. We do not know how.

It’s just hard to believe anyone who hangs a pie in the sky sign up the flag pole. This is how it is.

The moon stands heavy and degenerate with the sullen hunger of an abeyance tree to tree as those dark branches droop down toward the milk-white teeth of the river whose slander is another setting sun turned dark as lead in a Baptist church off the winding road that encircles the petulant fields with the temple flags of hurt.

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