I miss the misery. I knew I would, even as I leaped
away from my brother to the tribal drumming
of my heart: Britain was more ancient then, the stones

Stars are tears falling with light inside.
In the moon, they say, is a sea of tears.
It is well known that the wind weeps.

How all things shatter, fall away, and break.
In this time of my great happiness I pass
And repass the gates of the Holy Ghost

The light is a grinder of knives jangling his bells
For seven in the morning. He is all the steeples
In the town calling for whatever this day must be new made.

Something hopeful is about to happen,
the shepherd informed. The last train

out of town toots in the background.

 

At my doctor's insistence I joined Epileptics Anonymous. They look the same as anyone else, except for the small blue clouds brooding in the corners of their eyes.

There is no death in the sun. I know it will look far otherwise
to anyone watching from shore, anyone standing

at the blue Aegean, pointing up at a mythical bird soaring

Roach

My grandfather told me I
was one of the oldest living creatures.

 

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds

That old scene—monkey see and monkey do—
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude