I sit by the meadow and hum:
"defiance is easy in the big world
you have given me"
a mortar is fired in slow-motion,
"I will be here when everything is ice,"
I affirm by the meadow
Obeisance from the corn,
the canola and the wheat.
Obeisance from the cricket
as it hops over the creek.
Houses are opened to the sun
with the sound of rainbows.
Buildings bombed, demolished, cracked in half
with the sound of sunlight passing through a mist.
it is a held thing—the arc of time—
the level voice speaking through it
a skein of cord sitting on the throne
everything loud is quiet now
the ground opens up like walking
to the edge of a ravine
the seismic shift the swiveled iris
the deepest heart of evil is a pet project, a
ball on a string, a wire hanger
holding up a shirt
an elementary chord—C major triad,
for instance
there is no return by lightning
to my reign
no one will be killed, only silenced
made to face their fears
made to walk over a half-moon bridge
I hold the reins like a breeze
bears aloft a parasol
like someone in a floor-length dress,
strung up by her ankles,
turns completely into dress—
a final cloak drawn over economy
nothing will be saved
we all slide together like furniture on
a swaying ship
A pleasant curtsy from the ghost
who rattles teacups in their saucers;
a final win awarded to the knowing look
towards something lurking in the corner.
