Poem

January 1, 2006



A coiled spring is not confused.

arced electrons have made peace

with tension, lack of choice.

has predictable parameters

does not dispute unequal measure

There is comfort in constraint.

Limits are a mother’s arms

reassuring as warm milk

drenching fear with permission to rest.

But what of the gandy-dancers

who sing to blue guitars

whose boot-prints on the trackless flats

no other foot will fit? What cellular

compact protects moist pupils

from dust-driven wind?

Flesh from jagged edge?

Spirit from iron lines

refusing to rest in parallel?

When the flattened coil

Abandons its habitual plane

pops its center, becomes

A cone, a whirlwind, when clocks

click irregular as eaves

after a fitful rain, what fixities

measure the worth

of tears? the body-bagging

of dreams? Chaos has no loyalties

invasive as mold. My heart

pierced by cries of women

cursing days slipping from listless fingers

On TV an Iraqi

father brings his son

with a flame-charred hand

to Americans and begs for aid.

If discovered in this helplessness

his own people

will kill him.

In the world today

this approximates free choice.