cops at the movies, eyeing my bag, a really sick kid who can't breathe, & four days of grading student papers demonstrating thought (or lack of thought) that makes it clear why we haven't stopped a violence that we created & that we could we could easily uncreate if we had the proper will, if we could "find engines equal to these bones".
The law moves quickly in the rain
and chokes the world with memorials.
The courts accept the lowest superstition
into evidence. and we embrace quickly in the rain,
conceiving a hale infant with hands to wrinkle
the bedsheets toward it, wave by trough by wave.
We had the autumn. We had an hour
of massacre and then the wintertime.
I am beginning to believe in Fate,
in the circulation of ash inside
the bone, clattering along the pavements
like yellow shrapnel. It needs no purpose.
It needs only an engine and a name.
When you open a child, there is nothing
but a cramp of terror and a wrinkling hand.
In the unannealment of autumn, autumn shatters.
In a crow’s mouth, love is a crow’s mouth,
and the white percussion of faith is all the sound.
I heard it—white percussion like pianos
striking pianos, and no outrage, no transport.
Murder wrinkled its hand inside my house
that is my house no longer.
Man is weakest.
Faith chokes the world with his memorials.
Unbelief chokes the world with his nakedness.
There is not future if the past is helpless.
Let if find engines equal to these bones.
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