More on: Poetry

I dream myself the boy thrown
from the Jeep again: face, burlap

to hide what the boys made
with their fists.

A friend reminded me recently of joy—
my joy. My laugh, infectious, she said.

Even a book is simple in this folded
World. Though my throne is hidden, the horn-shaped moon

somewhere someone is dying you remember but
see the ache and its grace in frantic flight

You think it’s enough to wait all morning
for snow that never comes while up
in the atmosphere flakes drift for hours

without touching the ground.

War … / makes machines / whose metal eats more metal and spits its out and on / and on, and never enough, and always far too much.

Give me proof, said Thomas,

and he could see a hole in the palm before him,

and inside the wound a glimpse