after Anselm Kiefer

Lately we've begun to talk logistics,
to draw up contingency plans
for a war we're preparing
to lose. We're counting backwards

from D-day. If I die first, we tell each other.
Sometimes: If you die first. Declarations
flare in the street, the museum.
Our children can't stand that kind of talk,

they announce in front of Kiefer's painting.
They see an immense plowed field
under a day sky seeded with dark stars.
Sunflower seeds! they say. He used real seeds.

We see a bombardment of cinders
that fall through the air onto furrows
of emulsion, acrylic, shellac
to converge on a vanishing point.

No place to hide from the sky
— we'd better prepare a shelter
for them. We dole out small truths,
sufficient unto the day.

Sunflower seeds, we say.