sirena

sirena listens

to the smoke sweet

violins in tents

invoking dawns

from times ago,

when the cock's crow

was no sour alarm.

and the frog chorus

did not remind her

of the geiger counters

the white-suited men

arrayed around the pond

where they croaked

their ancient songs.

she drops the hood

of her princeton tigers

sweatshirt to her shoulders

now that the mosquitos

have gone quiet

for the night. just

the muffled thump

of drums, no longer

the boom of guns

over the blurred horizon.

sirena stirs the coals

of the smoldering

roulette wheels

and fifty seven decks

of cards. she softly sings

-midnight, not a sound

from the pavement,

has the moon

lost her memory?-

and the note she misses

is the one that cuts

the deepest, because

swords are not

the only things

that have two

edges.