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Poetry: Politics

 

It's a question of ground, of where
one stands, or, more precisely, of
where one falls.      Some earth
is loamy, soft as pillows, and dark:
every seed that falls, falls asleep,
logs rot quietly, and stones sink,
slow as broken ships through
the bottomless ocean, nothing
to support,    nothing to resist.

Despite parables, it is better to fall
upon stony places, or among thorns,
to spring up quickly, and armed
against sun and sharp knives, to know
through scorching days and
stinging nights the unforgiving earth,
the rock and the hard place that
do not fail in their fury to drive
the withered children of arid loins
in defiance of placating men of peace
and implacable, arrogant gods.

In the desert, the children parch,
and die, and, desiccated, watch still,
dead-eyed, in the singing air.
The bloodied shards of stone provide
root-grip and direction: their faces turn,
unblinking, to the wind.

From their mouths, shadows escape,
drifting like smoke on the backdraft,
gathering like clouds below the horizon,
and waiting for the sun,
to rise.
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