The statues were toppled, the portraits defaced, the palaces stripped of their finery
For months his administration flailed for a theme to dupe the masses:
national security threat, regime change, 12 years of evasion, and, finally, “Operation Iraqi Freedom”
Then rule burns this way on the house. He has not
mourned until then, and he burns and licks at me. His force
is canned grain, then it would go rude and then grain again
A problem from hell: we are going to be held accountable
for the gap in our values: pursuing raw unadulterated self
interest: forfeiting our soft power: predicting that it is better
to be feared than liked: comfort of the caves or discomfort of the caves
He grunts, pushes, clenches all
his muscles, head to toe, to no avail:
the lilac buds remain furled,
soft green shells awaiting a wave
he can taste but not see
Jury betrayed fearfully, he loosed his years, wanting,
and faulted the rounds again, then faulted the worms,
the sheen, coming from the why of this other preciousness
that was so raw to him. This theme he
risks stabbing in the wind of full mirth, the positive
theme. His feeling was a war that was
To himself, he culled the mimesis of the cell fjord.
It was stalled air, but the ski was less true,
the grateful nation of the bat swirl,
the winter of the leak more milky and clawed. He
leapt hot for awhile, seething his own imperviousness
at what had altered, then let it go and earned his head.
Once more, downward, the blue chill whacked and crawled out
Comments