On the rim’s t
hin edge, they hang on, feet dangling, fingers sliced.
Meanwhile, I scrape at poetry, the vast
scope of language, the debris
of civilized speech. My punctuation - pared
to a period.
The rind of polite is bitter, off center, a bit nauseous.
The thread of lyric at its end.
I burn it. Passion – not poise. A stone against massacre.
My mouth fills with stones.
I am sick from beauty. I would bleed out language,
keep the stubs of fingers,
the afternoon’s bombing, the keen smell of broken. Children
dead, wrapped in plastic, male mourners on their knees.
Someone keeps saying my name, as tanks pummel my words