Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Another for the New Sequence

Poem as Tentative Question, Derivative, Annotation on Youth

We are not driven to belief by sadness,
but to sadness by belief, that

occupier on the broken rock wall
that limns a village, two or three young people

gather, mill, outliers in a land of bright plastic,
in this world of coffee cups, zip drives,

& too many fighter jets. Or not enough fighter
jets—it's become so hard

to tell: to tell anything anymore is a grave &
heavy program. Ochre sun, beleaguered former

General, tell me what we need to further wind
down that corridor, what happens in the hazard

lanes. My daughter doesn't ask these questions;
she doesn't have to yet, but it's raining

down to broken. Visibility at an all time nothing
but “I told you so,” & “just shut up and hold on.”

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