these are
small bones we lay
our weight on
these are the hands of god
cupped beneath our feet
and the flesh has
begun to rot
and what of this?
a bare tree in
a november field
the bodies of thirteen birds
hung from the lowest branches
by fishing line wrapped
tight around broken necks
i was there under
the dull grey remains
of the sky
i heard the screams
of the dogs
the laughter of children
i remember rain
on the walk back to town and
the hunch of the shoulders
i followed
i remember that
the president was discussing
the possibility of
war
that we walked so
goddamn cautiously and still
the bones snapped beneath
our feet
and still the flesh
fell away
in accusing ribbons
and what we found
beneath it was
the emptiness we'd always
denied
august thick with the
buzz of cicadas
the wind almost clean
down this tree-lined street
the sky almost blue
above it
none of the details
that make up this day
ever complete
and i have given up
my fight against the weeds
have turned a blind eye
to the fact that
the driveway is beyond saving
it's enough to be here
in a room with windows in a
house that hasn't burned
and the dogs are starving
yes
but they have always been starving
my politics change nothing
i am a 32 year-old man
at a 25 year-old desk waiting
for his son to wake up
from a nap
three thousand miles away
a plane has fallen
into a deep blue ocean
and by this time tomorrow
the first seven bodies will have
floated to the surface
wreaths will have been placed
along the shoreline
and the water will claim them too
and for now i can only smile
we are always arriving at
the end of something
without warning
the dream weighs
nothing
the baby cries
is starving maybe
or is
being starved
is not something to
write a poem about but
i cannot shake
the thought
a man sits in
another room and
listens
turns the tv down
as the screams
get weaker
opens the door
finally
to check
closes it again
it is always
dali's last morning
and i am not
his dog
the war is
nothing more than
a soft shape buried at
the far edge of a
snow-covered field for
fifty years now
the saints are
all dead
***
but you were
promised
a crucifixion
were promised
a blood sacrifice to
reaffirm your faith
and you're in love
with your tv
or you're in love with
someone's sixteen year-old
daughter and either way
you keep the curtains
closed against
the sun
***
either way
you are the failure
you were always told
you'd become