More on: Poetry

Your name is splashed across the sky at night, / like some kind of petty graffiti,

It’s the first death for each of them,
but the crash of sorrow into happiness

There is much trouble in the world
but no diminution of hope

I don’t know much about Jerusalem
besides my walks in it.

“This is Fraternity
Island and contains
too few palms.
We shall plant
the sands and shade
our cabanas,”

I keep my mouth shut.
If it weighs on me, good—
I’ll be mindful.

At sunrise the end will freeze me like a lake trout
preserved in vinegar,

I am Yours, Yours only, however time
might wear me away

My native leniency inside your rage
becomes itself a hellish surge, otherworldly.