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The tadpole buoyant as basalt |
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The seahorse horsing in assault |
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The owlet in his greenery |
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The narwhal in his cup of sea |
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They all believe |
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They all believe |
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But collusion bleeds through back allies |
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From parapets that end on feet |
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When one is weak they discreetly meet |
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They throw the bones into the street |
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And they progress |
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And we retreat |
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And all the books our fathers wrote |
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Are in the middle of the road |
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Little by little we implode |
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History brittle, brown and broke |
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We can't remember what was spoke |
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So we stare in wonder at the smoke |
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What it begets is born alone |
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We know not now what we have known! |
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Ladies, breathe deep against your whalebones |
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For your children come home made of stone |
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The terror seething sees a way |
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Or like the wheezing of the bay |
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In miniature agonies |
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They travel westward on the breeze |
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Bring us all to our knees |
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The dappled horse, the sorrowed mare |
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With eyes that do not see but stare |
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Beneath boots as black as Malachi |
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He drives a nag into the night |
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Into the night |
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And all the baby boys we've borne |
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With eyes averted from the storm |
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Sent off to die in perfect form |
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We know now what we have known! |
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Satellite photos, rhetoric |
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See how the euphemisms stick |
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And when they come back, broke and burned |
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Those who return have not returned! |
