when we run
out of wars
to memorialize let
us recall the
ones who died
fighting other enemies
their own country's
fierce madness intolerance
among men innocence
plundered or perhaps
their own demons
met at the
battlefield of night
in defense of
their nation all
the world's fallen
soldiers

if it ever existed
then it existed in
the busted up play
ground of his childhood
or the corner lot
where dead leaves browsed
meanly among the weeds.
there was no place
he could not have
found it if only
he had chosen to -
even wandering empty
handed from the stadium
the last fan to
abandon his team
only to find his
car broken into

i have seen the lord - magdalene
not the original
torn open moment
cold to her
touch but what
happened next - calmly
in the face
of a man
unknown to her
offering explanations - magadalene
a solitary creature
not so much
startled as watchful
redemption at last
over the fog-locked
mediterranean basin. this
mist certainly from
the tomb &
spilled down cliffside
escarpments towards new
& unanticipated lands.

because it is
true that while
we sleep there
are great events
happening in modest
places say the
water fountain spouting
beside a contested
city playground or
near scuttled dories
at the harborfront
between two goats
grazing the sparse
cliffside grasses or
where water pools
for a pride
of siberian cats
above thessoloniki three
bearded monks arguing
with the wind
or else meditating
without sound in
chalk mausoleums (yes!
deeper yet where
root rock & river
at long last
learn & why
not?) how at
last we may
coexist

after midnight
when she slips
from the living

& out into
the wilderness

where willows throw
down their hair

by the wet
meadow & steps

from her dresses
into the unmoved

waters imagining only
the moon is

looking on oh
she knows the

moon sees everything
& tells it



saint helena
six years later rain
was still filling the
streets of his city
men to whom he
had restored pride
with broom handles
in their hands swept
the gutters of paris
they still dreamed his
name asking each other
& to the waves of his
exile he asked it too
why the human sea
no longer reached to
his shore


*may 5 1821, napoleon bonaparte dies in a farmhouse outside jamestown, on the tiny south atlantic island of saint helena



even the darkness
is sensible to
what lightning (in
the fragrance &

urgency of its
action) can muster
& holds itself

a woman at the
moment of penetration
ready



unvanquished
the army of your hands
moves unaltered
across my field
in search of a battle line
seeking no compromise
marching handsomely
to a tune that has haunted
my people - my
people, who have
emerged from
the protection of villages
& done with hiding
from your armies
are prepared this day
to face them



regret
they talk about
regret the blameless

as if it is their
old college chum

dropping by for
the fun of it

on a lazy
summer afternoon

not the apparition
bitter & insane

who stares at nothing
from my kitchen window

pale cellmate
married too soon



dead bird
you touch
the body before i have
a chance to tell you not to
feather & bone

your perfectly formed fingers
is it sleeping
you ask
me looking up suddenly

everything is still & it is all
i can do
to leave you
your innocence



april 15
in this city of twelve
million people two million
are protesting nine million
are sleeping that leaves
one million standing around
doing something else wishing
they were on vacation
telling off the boss
drinking doing their hair
screwing someone new taking
a break ordering pizza
being in another city
with the one they
love holding a child's
hand or maybe just
wanting to catch a
taxi & having waited
long enough for what
he wants tomas dagon
a forty-two year old
commodities broker goes up
to his apartment &
standing on top of
an old trunk begins
firing