a poem is less burdensome
than an inventory
of red artificial flowers
or a handful of beggar’s pencils
and I can stand upright
or close to it
not legless prideless
kneeling on a pallet
through these dark glasses
I can see clearly both promises
all the reasons supplied
for which-whatever war
engagement
I have learned
has nothing to do
with crosshairs or coordinates
but more like surrender
in cupped hands
offering up to love
a fragile tribute
This article appears in January 2008.
