September 19, 2012

poem 331 of a poem a day for 2012

hand on my heart, diving into the tides

a speckled vine loose Sun
is in the wet diamond memory
of the rain from last night
the maple's scattered branches
are everywhere 
outside the pines
and their leaves
are staining 
the concrete again
in tannic screams

it must be Autumn
waiting in the wings
in the cold damp morning
in all the seed-bird calls
that have gone South again
and inside my mind 
before I rise
America is no longer here

it is a world stage instead
with actors playing
the parts from everywhere
as my dreams are a hull
that slips a wake past
the aggregate floating masses
that pass as the philosophy
of blood in plastic pools
I am just one of those fools
lucky to be born here
bastard-ized and given
a choice to be a lion
that eats the lambs
another silent dutiful hand
of a patriotic inhumanity

no I say
when I awake
America is still here
divided as ever
when it comes to understanding
which is why when I get up
I look outside without demanding
I go outside and feel
where the water is standing
and the road beckons
for a bath
and change
of dressing


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