I want to rest on the shore
Until the urchins break skin
And the salt seeps in.
To secure a future we must understand
The difference between terror and fear.
Walk into a room and hear a snake’s sudden hiss,
See it squirming in a dark corner, two reptilian eyes
Piercing darkness like fangs in search of your
We adults know the future is bleak.
Have jobs, families, to-do lists.
Do what we can.
Know in our hearts that
It’s not enough.
I’m not going to argue the absurd, argue
That things are bad or going to get better.
We live in an age of immutable belief shaped
To write is to argue without evidence that beauty
pervades: the rainforest and the killing field,
sunsets and floods of acid rain on I-95.
I notice my parents aging as I do myself:
Not at all, then in a photo, all at once.
When I leave, his sadness is simple:
He loves me here, close enough to sniff.
To him I am fragrant of complete love,
Su mano es un derrotado
Castillo de arena o nube,
Una brisa caliente que se enfría,
Un latido de corazón acariciado por dedos
Que presionan el yugular de un cadáver.
What if poetry were as recognizable to the general public as commercial jingles (The best part of waking up, is Folger’s in your cup), pop music, or celebrities?
