09 November 2008

9 nëntor 2008

9 nëntor 2008

sharper the blade the cleaner the cut
—great in the kitchen for slicing
dicing and peeling—but in war
its dirty blades that sing victory
with their nicks     burrs and rust
in torn flesh of the opposition
—wounds to fester and never heal
despite negotiations and treaties
signed in allegedly neutral places
watched by church     state and business

running through fields will crush
flowers and plants no worse than wind
or torrential rain and hail     we can’t
simply do nothing and stay alive—
for us to live means other animals
and plants live and die on     within
and outside compassioned bodies
a bois d’acadie     a rose heart
a broken eye     a candle burning
where no candle should ever be lit

catching people’s clothes and hair
a large green glass vase centrepiece
filled with crabapple branches bearing
fruit     small sunflowers     roses in bloom
and green apples not haws stuck on thorns
but those branches are still hawthorn
black clouds loosen cold rain again and
again against open windows—into the studio
of the poet writing cold November poems—
soaking poem pages written     in his absence

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