Just the rain is enough. Let
the sacred dream of texts wash out the night. The distant thunder comforts
me with its natural mumble. When a human body falls from such height, it bursts
into a pink fog on impact. Yet, even now, just as birds dream of golden corn, I
think of him. It is a troubled dream. I am accused of arrogance, but this, that
hole in the sky and the long tongue of smoke and ash that licks up the lights of
the skyline is too much. My mind cannot absorb any more diversity. The false
prophet says. "You will see light within much light." Sure. Why can't
I find someone to fund my crimes? The newspapers all have photos of the prime
suspect with a beard, long hair and soft eyes like Jesus. Still, something makes
us write poems about the bodies we hold at night. You tell me why. They all go
to ash, and easily turn to smoke. Some lands are so dry there isn't even a
blossom of missing someone growing there. The last time he called was when they
invaded Kuwait. Now, all this trouble settles on his wife's ears. He pours
a double shot. She sees how they fall past the blind windows, cleaving the
white air.
©
2002 Robert Klein Engler
More Poetry
The
First Time in the History of the the World the Old Queen is Disappointed
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