More on: Poetry

The voice of your brother’s blood 
is crying to me from the ground.

How to do it, how hold
in balance

what misses the mark
and what hits it

That was terrorism,
she says. I know evil.

. . . I love her and how do we

explain her?

The night of my most pain
a new girl came and was put
in the opposite bed.

What times these are.
No one knows what’s happening.
The air is filled with words.

The first moment
is this moment,
this one right now.

The black dog in the yard 
is darkness visible.  

In particular, a can of tomato paste 
which fits in my hand like a roll of bills. 

Not angels, but pale travelers
            through time, come back
Not to condemn or to reverse
            our narrow acts, 

But to remind us, by their soft
            disclosures, what
Is still to come.

In my paradise 

there would be a lot of liquids and could I bask  
unabashed in the breathing  
hammock of myself as a kind of Sweden  

for unrequited fleeing.