to the eyes of men and the ears of women
and bring it here, now:
immediate and living,
the purr of a cat beneath the hand
the smell of asphalt and bread in the oven,
like that: sharp
and full of the instant and the past.
A bullet whining through sunflowers,
dropping a petal onto warm plowed earth
a second before it slams into a house
that is all too familiar
with blood and projectiles.
and weddings.
births.
funerals.
That flow left its mark
along with other recent miseries
etched in chipped cinder block
snapped runner strings
where the beans fall trampled
under night boots
and somewhere nearby
a girl listens to a heartthrob
on the radio.
Like her mother did.
And the boys on the corner
talk about her, laughing,
like their fathers did.
The lights go out
like they always do,
just the glow
of cigarettes on the street
and candles in the windows.
And the girl's song goes dead.
waiting. again.
For the mercy or the joke,
never knowing which it will be.
Are the gods always so arbitrary?
Is that the secret of power,
no reasons given or understood?
A universe, cold, random,
and not to be explained.
Where are her kisses and sunshine?
Buried under corpses and offices,
drowned by a thousand million channels
of noise and whispers, sirens and love songs.
Can I find shelter
like the boys on the corner
or the girl in her room
waiting for the lights to come on?
Is this our garden?
bomb-stripped trees, graves,
perfect fruit from the tree?
Images of everything are available.
It doesn't matter how lovely or sad.
You want to see them?
Google it,
and you can have it
in your lap in a moment.
Do we have enough books
and paintings and atrocities?
I didn't find my girl on the fourth floor
with her window view of eucalyptus
and her memories that burned
and ruined her world.
She dreamt of me
and dogs and thugs
while I slept there
-and wandered here
in the storm-bared roots
of stolen streams.
