Soldiers Aim at Us
as the crowd of women flees inside the nostrils of searchlights
—may God have a photograph of this—
in the piazza’s bright air, soldiers drag Petya’s body and his head
bangs the stairs. I
feel through my wife’s shirt the shape
of our child.
Soldiers drag Petya up the stairs and homeless dogs, thin as philosophers,
understand everything and bark and bark.
Do you remember the city
we couldn’t enter or exit?
Everyone played the radio so loud
you could hear the gentle breathing of the sky.
(Liable to arrest
at any moment.)
The strangest thing, perhaps, was
fear became almost cosy;
a rustling of rags, a foot
for ever in motionless motion
kicking a window in.
cut from simon howard’s site http://walkingintheceiling.blogspot.com/
When you ask me what has changed my life,
I tell you motors, generators, compressors, transformers;
I tell you boilers, pumps, transmitters and flywheels.
When you ask me if I found them I say no,
I rescued them.
What generations could have dreamed
This grandchild of the shopping streets, her eyes
In the buyer’s light, the store lights
Brighter than the lighthouses, brighter than moonrise
From the salt harbor so rich
So bright her city
In a soil of pavements, a mesh of wires where she walks
In the new winter among enormous buildings.
That spring when life was very hard and I was at war with my lot and simply couldn’t see where there was to get to, I seemed to cry most on escalators at train stations.
thanks to donna @ word pond
Not by hammering the furious word,
Nor bread stamped in the streets,
Nor milk emptied in gutter,
Shall we gain the gates of the city.
But I am a prophet without eyes to see;
I do not know how we shall gain the gates
of the city.