their gullets stuffed with handouts, while you soar
over the oaks with dreaming clouds, with the glare
and glimmer of the distant but holy sun
in your misunderstood eyes, your paeans one
with the wind. Yet it was you who, perched on the shoulder
of Jesus, watched him suffer and heard him cry,
and it was you who saw the enormous boulder
moved, and you who saw him enter the sky.
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I bought a cane
down Narrow Lane,past Copper Dome.Black as a brook,dull as a tine,eyes of a rookstared into mine.An urn of dustnext to a flask,I do not lust,and do not ask.I deck the shelf,wall unto wall,a boxed-in self,two inches tall.
The golden wheat of the Ukraine
Nearby, a Chekist bashes the brainof a Kulak, as in a sideshowhistorians agree to forget.Tomorrow his gaunt wife will feedher drumstick children acacia flowersor sparrows crushed beneath her feet.The following day she’ll beg the powers-that-be for a stale loaf of bread.And the day after that she’ll liecradling moons. Among the rich,she will not feel starvation’s…
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…
Petalled with rust beneath a sky of slag,
Below it, the meaning of all my days:thistled lots, brambled voids where time lagsoblivious to the maimed and forgotten.My eyes sink in their vision: flocks of crows,torrents of black water, flapping shadowsover tawny fields in endless autumn…On the bridge, wasting bad time, I’d shed tears,but have no regrets, only old ironies,black insect prayers that cannot…
The father looks up to the sky or ceiling
with his son wrapped inside his cradling arms.An orderly obscures the boy’s midsection,with silence says he is beyond all healing.Outside the frame in colour copter straferestokes the ire of Taliban gendarmeswho soothe the mother twisted in dejection.We do not catch a whiff of her pained retching,catch sight of their clenched fists or hear their words.We…
His head reels—gulls beneath the mackerel sky
He holds the helm fast, tries to catch his bearingsin the mirror of a bloodshot eye.A tempest bellows, “All clouds lead to Rome.Light pours down on both the preyed and preying.”Grateful for the dark, the light and greying,he spurns his ache and calls the moment home.