Poem: What Disappears into Beautiful Things? | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
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Poem: What Disappears into Beautiful Things? 


Vietnam haunts me—or at least the thought of being there,
high above the Jackfruit and Sub-Nosed monkeys, in a Huey,
     picking off the ants below.

So now I create mobiles out of driftwood—
In part to hang my nightmares by a fishing wire.


The wood sheds density over time.
With enough of a breeze, it rattles just right:
click clack…click clack…click clack…
lamenting the madrigal of a monk’s bamboo flute.

Petrified. Sculpted. Transmuted.
The wind nudges the chimes, like a mother
kisses the forehead of her newborn.


Dug into the jungle, I see my enemy.
He is panting; he is slobbering like a thirsty boar—
    a ringlet of heat rising from his nostrils.
The field blistering with the naked adrenaline of bloodlust.


So today I walk the shoreline, looking for washed up tree parts.
The ones I am searching for are made smooth and dynamic
     by the relentless pressure of the tides.

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