In drama they seem to break so easy
off the tongue of great actors
only to fall miserably forgotten by the stage hand
trying himself at home to be the hero, failing
to take the mirror seriously.
& In a recession they are monotonous
reminders that we hunger
in hoards hunched over each other
like discarded clothes,
hurt imitations of stale bread.
the throes of being unable to rise.
In my face, they become mere
delineations of my age,
boundaries for the eyes of passers by,
binary code for the facial recognition
software of the sky light.
One wants to elongate
the etymology of these pronunciations,
this adverb pronounced nation of syllables
and retching inaudible iambs vying
for one ingot of clear measure –
a moment to have arrived
somewhere familiar, an instance of rain
when it wasn’t called for, existence of truth -
justice within a mob. The yellow-jackets have eaten
the once-throbbing heart of the fallen crab apple.
In a poem, the line too makes a new home
for itself, desiring the center of something
sweet to sink its teeth into
diving into the shade of its own
created spaces,
brave and broken,
breathing easy beyond the light,
blood or ink, drawing
circles around the mouth.
