In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon br to ward off complicity--the ordered life br our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife, br our chance to live depends on such a sign br while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon br is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith; br be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face br annihilation unless all citizens get in line." br br I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere br other citizens more fearfully bow br in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state. br Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there br will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows br cross: never to kill and call it fate.