Into what flesh do the teeth of a nation sink?
Is it the flesh of the spirit pinned to my body
like a sad insect? And why does my laughter
sound like the language of a contract?
Will the forests, as they’re saying,
erode into dunes? Is the night as placental
as I imagine it? What happens in the silence
of a father’s empty promise? Of a Father’s?
In the second it took me to hit the ground,
after my brother pushed me from our roof,
was the look on his face one of regret
or discovery? Does the disambiguation
matter, now? The stars of ahistoricism
burn bright tonight, don’t they, as children
wish upon the burning acres in countries
that their parents mispronounce?
Who will be around to substantiate the past
with all these music legends dying?
God is drunk on human epiphanies again.
There he goes, lobbing them down toward earth —
doesn’t he recognize all the damage he’s doing?
Will he ever explain himself?
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