Monday, October 21, 2013

Tooth of No Crime

Bone weather speckled with migrants. Burst
and cluster like brown hares. The made world
unmade, the natural as brutal. A tossed cork
like a lure bobbing on the far side of a river.
All is spruce there, or so it appears.
Distant from a terminus, I can’t say. I know
sand is fluidless. Where were you born? Where
are you now? Gun toters guarding their wares—
from those who don’t want them, not from those
who do. The dense air of deserts, denser
than cities, you’d think the air hot and clear.
I walk, I dine casually, I read, I fret
over bills. A small shove, a jostle,
I could be anywhere, here or there, unwanted.


Homogeneity, if not in stock then in attitude.
Oneness is a brain thing. You are what you’re
allowed to be, and if allowed, you wear
your garments over your tincture. God bless
the indigenous, even if the indigenous fled here.
Land of the escape, the law mitigates nothing—
beg here under its mantle you’ll time
out like remote access on the Web: not membership
but life. The home grown are as home grown
as a moon rock, we are all vagrants. They implore
you and then they implore you not. They arrive.
Species divide, scurry across continents. Some
by canyon, some by water. Accept them or don’t.
They are you, you them. Look in a mirror.