They have stolen the city | down in the mud where the boot heels dig | cryptic shapes for no one’s glances | Soon they will steal the country | including my lemonade | the whistle on a braided string | the old pool in winter | drained but still | pitched on memories of water and lassos | of ripple and glare | pumped splashes, too | They are not an army | they did not | cross any border | we are their guests | and if we are not grateful, they will show us | how easy is the way | to connect | our young skulls | with even younger graves | We all know | when we can | snatch a little sleep | that a dark ladle | slips into our bodies | and lifts partial | fluids from dreams | waters teeming with life | we cannot make entirely | belong to us | although | on this | side of the wall of dawn | we call the land a nation and the nation | ours | and claim | the whole sky | in complete agreement with our tongue’s heaven

Shattered accord | Tanks coming through the TV | into the living room | The night | tender predator | preys on those boys | stirs them from their uniforms | lifts them naked to | straight or gay love | puts the tears into them | the whirlpool of | who they never are, but forever | reach for | in mud and memories | turns and churns | confusion on a | liquid axle | Following orders | servants of a hazy cause | the morning | gripes at them with guns | crows | the routine of | packaging up flesh | in alien contact | strange ideas | One | tangos | no | Out of their heads | new heads | translucent and fluid | scoot in schools | they are only | half awake | the past | laps them | the present | yet to | form totally, the future not | yet | stay put | Running through meadows | in flight or pursuit | taking the burnt | city with them | into a darkness where rest | is no longer easy | into beds with their lovers | still the strings to their children | uncut | but to the soldiers | cut | and cut | and cut

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2014)

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