Quiet inside the crumbling. Beheaded
trees weep unheard for their lost crowns.
A plane glides through speechless blue like
a wandering eye. Everywhere the heart
pumps against the studs of its iron suit.
There was a time when poetry felt enough.
I opened my mouth and crowed at the light
for its false gifts. Teeth that shone wetly
as they bit the tongue. A daughter, I thought|
wrath-oiled ambition would make jasmine
grow out of slandered meat. It is so easy
to live without magic, accumulating Prime
deliveries. Glitter the wound, billboard
as art demands for rescue from those who
have only a nuclear ending to offer. If, and
when no more ski trips can be squeezed from
the stone of for-retirement living, there is
at least the promise of deletion. Narcissus’
pool in our hands: the checkpoint we seem
to all agree on. Grow the brand, singe beyond
risk of touch. This is safety. Just as quiet is
chainsaw-roar, helicopter-thump, siren-
keen, clock-tick, traffic-hiss, tyrant-garble,
wailing like wood chips in the blood.
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POETRY: Issue 35