Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Yesterday an open mouth
                        on the floor of the sea.
        A nation playing

bloody knuckles
                        with its own hands.
        The television rattles

when it's not on and
                        when it is, shakes
        the house. Yesterday

every photo was rubble,
                        ash in the coffee, blood
        in the milk, something

desperate about
                        our typical consolation
        of rescue. How

can morning plough
                        so smoothly through night?
        Today a sparrow flew

into the spinning spokes
                        of my bicycle, and
        out the other side.

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