I am nothing. Or maybe a thin layer of snow
On hibernating grass, a just-fallen leaf
Still twitching in the coffin of the frozen earth.
But there is a wind
Skipping like a boulder across the Atlantic, flapping
Like a great migratory bird whose wake will brush me aside,
Will reveal my emptiness to the fog.
Perhaps if every night were so laden
practical life would grind to a halt—
the fields untilled, shops unopened,
schools unminded—for who can bear
mere survival in the face of, dare I say
My nostalgic heart demands that I be verbose, take my time,
Make of my pain a museum, and wander its halls, seeking…?
Ah yes, these yellowed letters in the attic, half-forgotten,
The world is divided into flowers.
Some go to lovers, some to adorn death,
And still others go dropping petals
Like bombs because it is autumn
And there is no hope for life.
The night hangs low and shatters treetops
Like a brain bludgeoned against a wall,
Bone obliterated, thought incinerated,
Oozing toward the denuded earth,
And I resist.
Sleepless, restless, hopeless—yes.
Still I resist.
Her hand is a vanquished
Castle of sand or cloud,
A hot breeze gone cold,
A heartbeat felt by fingers
Pressed upon a cadaver’s jugular.
In Vietnam we set the jungle on fire,
The leaves and branches melting like wax,
Candles blown out by blind war
Snuffing out the celebration of life.
Cool breezes are pressing their feathery cheeks against the sail of my heart, sending me floating towards a horizon that smells of dew infused with flowers. Sunlight, as though poured from a faucet, moistens my skin with its bronze tint. […]
I am not a patriot.
I kneel when called to stand
And rise when told to sit still.
I have no respect for flags
And those who wave them.
The engine of the trees buzzes. The dew is shaken,
Then lands in the mud on the wings of leaves.
The sheets contain us in their fuselage, and through the window
The world shines like naked aluminum.