Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Sorry

Pierce the membrane of this country
and joy flows out with salt and blood.

Once we floated sickly, limply tossed around.
A bag of gelatinous politick,
greyed miserly sloth presuming
to supress terrors charred and seething
in the dim-lit misted past.
The glance of silver as our eyes alit on truth
was too much to bear;
the hustle of the massacres
the come-from-gut screaming
the marrow-curdling gene bleaching
and all of us, for all of us,
a reaching for a relief
not coming.

Yet now, look!
What are these wonders startling out
like starlings in the new light?
Change thrums in us, pulses and quickens
and suddenly a nova of life crashes forth
calloo, callaying
demanding to be heard and smashing
the Jericho we never wanted built.

Sweet relief, release.
Pierce the membrane of this country
and joy flows out with salt and blood.

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