Something Missing In the Middle

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536

Might all these days be snow-filled?
we roll with cold fingers down the hill behind the house
rolling downhill til
we reach the high bridge
we are sixteen years old again,
virgin saints
glad of the night god who dropped her glasses
and put on her animal skins
to cheer us and possess our tiny spirits.
might we remember this on a warm day
in the shade of a dark wood
among the nymphs and the leaves
the street now lost to us.


537

Something some country clerk said
to an ugly girl
ends up starving a nation.
we fall toward the water thinking we are flying
yet sailing downward
dropping giddy nightmare
scrolling through our minds
regular plumes from burning nations
fill our nostrils and send outward
their national darkness
headless hatless mummies as we hit the water
and unravel
our silver plundered and our air
unfit to breathe.
we are now happy fools
traversing lightly head over heels through
the yellow sky
intent on wartime
sailing through the earth
writing epitaphs on the summer wind