So much here disappoints.
Markers of the sacred
marketplace need a hard scrubbing.
New maps might show
where all the old verities lie.
It’s clear something terrible
has happened.
The lame still cannot walk.
And the blind are like you and me.
Every day Postal loses mail
that answers prayers.
Though each day
is a drawdown nonetheless
and counts against us.
We lowered our sights long ago
when we lost the ability to see
things as they are. Some say now
the new normal is here.
And isn’t someone always unhappy
with the music?
But oddly, not the pink zinfandel.
In spring the young can be seen
marching out of the tired city
squinting to catch sight of the eternal
and true.
Once, how to remember—
so did we
when all the lights still were green.
We sat in a giant, imaginary ring
like stars waiting on morning.
The distant city attended to its jazz.
Scratch of brushes against fine skin.
The Beatles arrived late
with asperity and Ringo
already on the drums.
We heard a crowd with long poles
smashing windows. From cellars
the obligatory screams.
There was wind, to be sure.
Flying debris. Church steeples
toppled. Not always the older trees.
Though no one noticed, rage
of a flute had melted that one tune
we thought we knew.
For an intermezzo
the inquisitor poured barley water.
too hot to drink. What do you
have to say for yourself
somewhere a voice was demanding.
You could hear a tree in the yard
that had forgotten its roots
and now lies about
what it had known all along.
There were digressions. Surprise
in our circle at how mild
plenary judgments are.
Of course we had expected the wolves
to be cruel.
So much here disappoints. Markers of the sacred marketplace...
We sat in a giant, imaginary ring like stars waiting...
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We start with the car packed. Urgencies boxed. Rufus...
What began as vast waves of fire flows inexorably toward...