broken arms again, but
you hear her dancing. not
building this time, this light of hers:
her lines of sight are
index to transistor radios,
where commerce shakedown
feeds narration of a nation,
for south-drift wandering
northward wind, to limit
the sails and speak words
corrupting faith in sound
& light, no intention
to subjugate a compound verb
in Sanskrit, nakedly, truth
incarnate, in Veda or ancient epic,
to speak and be heard now
in songs from bards to broken
furniture thrown down wrecked
on the dining room floor—
it's all past consideration,
no order, wreckage. and her
arms are broken where
she dances. nor do I now
understand the circumstances:
how can this pyramid give life?
— they nail the architect
to the floor and laugh.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005 (Wednesday, December 20, 2006)
