Aug 31, 2005

I wrote this for the victims and survivors of the Tsunami, but it seems relevant also to the people of New Orleans on the day after the end of the world:


The gloaming's blue seeps
into the white of the snow
& renders it blue too.

Jellied thoughts in
these skunky hours of
winter. A lance of ice
besets the verdant mind
& the verdant mind's grace.
Folly of the world maybe
calls forth an ocean blade
that swoops over warmer
lands while this chilly one

Why, lightbringer,
should such horrors
amass? You in your blue
sky who flaunts cold
order, the ordered dolor
of the metal mind? I listen
to winter's chimes & foam
& glower at the gloaming
as it blues the snow.

The snow's blues cloister
& the ocean's blues
cleave foreign soil. We
are not your people. We
were never your people.
The sun knows nothing,
the boat dreams of the sea
& the sea's dream screams
over the naked land. The sea's
not your papa, either. We
orphans in the blue gloaming
& the foaming seas.

What temple? The void
& the bobbing boat
& the salty deep wells
of tears are our only charge:
shepherds whose sheep are bare.

Say to me 10 things
to be done & pass to night's
province. Your boat is small,
little Phoebe, no phoenix little
sunbird, your concern's
not at all.

Sun wolf, ocean blade
a million tarry hearts
beat over these waters now
stilled but no recompense
from that water's whims,
the sun's folly or fury
& who will tend the ghosts
of those that water's killed?

The queen of ghosts
is a rumor, us pigeons all
concerned, conceived


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