Saturday, June 11, 2011


Whose violence is vocal, whose
lyrical exhalation is a cold wind,
whose eyelashes are nets trapping
the bycatch of beautiful vision,
whose sweat is a fuel for sleeping
whose history is an ocean of tears,
whose love is measured in the
misspent years between trying
and hopelessness, between
the faceless I and the changed
whose two spirited truth seals
this night time casket,
night time night,
whose cruelty is soft, and
innocent, and honest.

I understand/I don't understand.

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