this will find you. and you will hear.
the bubbling of water after a ship has gone down
the monotone of voices _ a strangled help _
huddled over a piece of paper
in the last light
frankly i am sick. and there is no song ill enough
to sate my anger.
find me a borough. busy. with all the windows
3 cops won't be enough.
and i'm angry because i feel like you are the open sky
and i am both the plane and the guy without a parachute
etched at the doorway
and i'm angry because
if you want me to
words, like this, are powerful.
rise like the cobra's flared head
forgo immunity. strike with impunity.
thine self. set upon thine self.
what i want is to sit in a stone amphitheater, amid the
archangels, to hear a sound, so complete, so desolate
as if God himself had had his heart broken.
what i want is the epistle of meaning.
the two of us speaking carefully.
slurring our words. as if we were in snow.