Monday, January 23, 2012

Who'll Stop the Rain

Vessels, containers, pots, shapes, everything

is liquid or gas molded ephemerally into glass

shapes easily shattered and content advancing


across a carpet until it is absorbed,

the carpet itself a membrane containing the floor—

we dwell in the estate of formlessness, even our skin

a receptacle lending curvature, and occasionally beauty,

to chemicals lacking coherence.

Like African and Arabian

nations concocted by colonialists, like a blotch of color

on a painting positioned by a filbert, possessing no

inherent inclination of its own. Like this poem.

Not an anarchical state but a state in which

there is no state,

just liquids and gasses compressed

into shards by liquids and gasses and named by men.

(This poem appeared in Stand in the U.K)

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