11 Sep 01
Falling from the sky last night
Above Asheville like a giant
Burning mum was the most
Beautiful moon I have ever seen.
Swaddled in sherbert mist,
Variegated silver and enormous,
With jet liners slowly crawling
On its gourd face, poised like flies
On a summer squash and away,
Leaving that sudden scowl,
Immediate and carnal, like the furiously
Indifferent Arab faces of thieves
Whose purity upended poor Genet.
But nothing puts the skin back,
No stitched hair circling between
The year’s numbed fingers,
Not the full moon’s sugar
Dissolving across these green ridges,
Not a thousand swollen doubloons
Shifting their galleon loads
In the starry pool. Nothing helps
Set the shining eyes back on their pins.
And this loosed conflict breaks
The back of those that are left.
Poetry is no balm, but poetry
Is what the world wants when
Its heart is broken. Injury loves melody,
Just as the tyrants learn to beware
A movement that sings, what the drunken
Warrior needs is a tune, a chorus of amity
Timed to peel his frontal despair
Back across him like a caftan,
Warm as a mother, calming these
Coiled and rattling whores of war.
Ground Zero’s milk sick cove,
With its steel beams reaching mantis-like
Out of the gored smoke, is seeking
A place for the grief to go, a hole
To pour in all the remnants
Of our punctured Soul and like
An ice fisherman fixed to his perfect
Circle, we would pull out fear’s
Slow wiggle in a nourishment of tears
And forget Death, stalking like a butler,
Stuck in his charge like a fly in amber,
Dusting all masters down, a sanctified
Alien moving between the oak furniture,
Entering the silence of our towns.