spins in the chilly blast
of November, floating free
before it hits a wall,
attempts to run and leap,
only to quickly fall
onto a mounting heap
of others, stop, and fade.
No one admired its fight
with wind, and no one made
a chronicle of its flight.
It lies anonymous.
No one recalls or grieves.
It’s one of numerous
other autumn leaves.
No one saw what you saw
that moment in the sun.
No one stood there in awe.
You were the only one.
2008
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We do not hand out pills, but shells,as out of battlefields they starefrom over sixty years agoon far-off Guam or Guadalcanal.With trembling hands they try to showhow the bravest or youngest fell.We console them with a cold cup,and a tender tap on the shoulder.What haunts them, though, will not give up,nor the fallen boys grow…
1.
in the corner of my faithless eyesseven magpies have stolen awaythe morning star.Glory, glory! The rising suncrowns the cathedralin this town stopped stillin awe of blazing malachite.Reborn are the winged shadesin the rookeriesto haunt dear heavenwith their pained pterodactyl cries.Reborn are the grey pigeonson the old market squarequarrelling with their enemies,the dirty sparrows.2.Sancho, my old…
It was a time of greyness and of tanks,
a time of strikes, protests, and fear. Despairwas a catchword we wore to work, the thankswe gave for empty shelves, for brothers crushedbeneath the muddy wheels of ZOMO lorries,the finger we would give to those, who, storeysabove us, smiled, then kept our voices hushed.It was a time of all resistance smashed,of vodka in our wounds…
Burnt Sudanese earth under claw,
a girl who crouches, strands of strawbeneath her lowered head, her mindin refuge on the dream-kissed shoresof an oasis, where green palmleaves shade black brows, and water poursinto a pool that’s bright but calm.A flame-tree sheds no grief, insteaddroops in the backdrop. A stump liesresembling a lion’s headstill warding off the thirst of flies.
Intensities of pain—
and those once executed.The scientific gainbelongs to us, but who knowsof Giordano Bruno’ssuffering on the square,tongue-tied on cobble stone,as he met fire alone?Around him everywhere:wine spilt amid the jeering,grimaces and cheering,squeals from a paederast,smiles from thieving hawkers,bishops, whores, and gawkers.—“Into the Tiber, casthis ashes! ” —could be heard,“for every wicked word.”
I turn the stony corner
Today I am a mourner.Crows circle garbage binsbeyond the iron gate;two magpies poach hairpins;a sparrow comes too late,then flees the treasure chest.I move on, and I wait.It is here she will restbeneath the silt and sand,her headstone facing west.And still, I can’t withstandthe power of my grief.A tree can’t understandthe falling of its leaf.