a war
through the window
a war is
on in places
I have never been and
never would care
to go
it is east and infancy
cradled viscera, marrow
seeking ordinance, ordination
the split femur of spectacle
and the brute beauty of
the metal refrain, the bullet wasf
I think it understands
it's dime-store
and I expect it
to cross the ordinary
a safety pin in severed cloth
into the west
where the people are
holding the reigns of adulthood
in chapped hands
just as I
when I grew a beard
and gave up the pragmatisms
of sainthood or despair
for
the unquiet effigy:
West, fact
necking me
with
virgin slobber
and teeth
the end of summer on
like Stravinsky
or how all the comics
at the store had their
American prices scratched
out in ballpoint
small shift in body
how
it smells
of strong dark tea
after sex
not resentful, only
certain:
alarm clock, TV news
West.