Ballad

A bone holds under stress, but snaps
faced with the slightest torque
(the things one learns from black
and white action flicks). The princess' horse

has mastered its routine and hedges
stand in terrific awe
(the channel switched, all weddings
have been called off). Let slip the fogs of war.

Garden iambic, it is thee
that bursts in awful forth
of rats and poppies. See
how the aeroplane settles in arcs

as it runs out of gasoline.
Heavy bottles of port
burst after years, clear wine
baptizing dusty cellars in the fort

once called temple and righteous son.
Rust lines follow the poor
breathing too much air. Once,
the fisherman pulled her from the water,

pulled the coin from her tongue, the trouble
is we breath acid, course
toxins, skip our wooden
houses across the goldflaking shores,

and cast her back into the mire.
She is music or
muse, our face whole with wire,
peace does not merit our robotic arms.

The rosening hospital bricks
piled against the cure,
a mound of needle tips,
give unsure root to an uncertain form.

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