Two Poems

Atlanta


there are chimneys
like exclamations
of existence
as if to claim that
Sherman
had never come.

So I sit with a
cotton ball
being spun in my hands,
the seeds like
hail
as they
are robbed of their homes
and rendered desolate.

Still there are trees
bearing the scars
of their ferric
bowties,
steel ablaze
in the time of war.

and on the floor
are jars of clay
that protect
bourbon,
that close eyes
with a solemn
X X,
that provide
respite
from the summer heat.

If there were
instead
children huddled
inside of corners,
or girls of fifteen
condemned to loosened
corsets
and the brutal touch
of a stranger
clad in blue,

then those that
clap their hands
to call the attention
of the dead
would understand
the savage grace
of bricks
crumbling in flame

and know why
there are those that
cannot bear to
look at the land
unless they weep.



#2 Dzerzhinsky

Beria’s office
once was blocked
by a heavy armoire.

The lair of those
Lords
of
the sword and shield
has
at long last
with
the help of blood
made fertile
the soil
of that barren land.

In Rome
the parapets soar.
Miters rest
with considerable élan.
The shoes of the pontiff
are dyed a deep crimson.
It is a great
fortunate
occurrence.
It prevents
his environs
from causing stains.