Of polished east,
I shined the Sun’s
Motor until I saw trees
In its eye and rabbits
Hopping over a limb left empty
Of its nourished bark.
Every crack and knot still juiced
Has the odor of pine needles,
Sap cleared and healed
Of the murder
In its thunderstorm
Threatened to
The musicality of a rainfall.
The creation of trees
From my hands as language depends
On the rain’s freedom
To grow rings.
And the noise from the limbs’ arrivals
In their right selves is offered a name
For its travels from religion to independence:
Clarity. A doorway for every nuance
Of noise from the jail where identity
Met another’s rights as the same
As one’s own. A road, red as an injured
Eagle’s dirtied airplane veins.
During a war, now’s bloodletting
Under the stars and satellites as
Eyewitnesses. Bodies’ odors neglected
Like the names of the injured. That’s the jail,
Dolls near the eyes of a sleeping sister
Whom, moments before, knelt. I need
An ear for the language to kneel without
The eyes of vanity.
I need the herd mentality of every
Murder you’ll believe is a revenge
That reveals the Kleenex
Of every loved one left,
