...never knowing who hears
but, there, in that little grove of trees 
by the side of the road, someone watches, charts 
a course through the bloodstream	of a giant, 
the desert—an idol, dancing, gleams and now scales, licked 
by the inarguable tongue of time—
which chapter closed?  
who stares and doesn't disturb 
the dust of rest		and peace, in time 
would culminate a single moment 
of selfless horror—
trampling over sea and rock and sand and soft
soft	the wash of thought, what plans hatched and which
abandoned at the outset—a hard winter, fruitless
digging in brittle soil and the first glimpse
of that undeniable

***

			and now and then and sometimes and always and for all time and of all the times, sometimes, for a 
time, one understands the madness, the sibilant voice that rumbles low, distant thunder tumbling through stale air—
what drove the young to slaughter, 
the infirm and elderly to sentiment, rusting
for want of moisture, rattling in the rafters, empty 
and the bridges emptied too
in passing
		you understand how time opens boxes, unlocks the parched throat of memory, paints mystery across the field 
in colors steeped through silence, terrible dance 
of stars
and whether it 'happened'
binds together now, picking the field clean after rain

the gentlemen do not indulge enough to see 'eye to eye'		

no one knows
what the little boy has done 
to anger the locals so, 
only that his room is empty

***

and you simply must visit
to know how one is never alone, how the air 
slips all over you until it is time to part and there are gifts 
and there are gifts, but a bag of candy isn't enough to make things right

			so one hears it, sung like sex or silk
					and you're afraid because the voice 
sounds like the chirping of a bird 
or the soft swish of running water

and in your fear, her eyes flash—darkness and laughter and all among the market stalls and you part ways, make promises to write, 
you're home now, your first letter, drafted, only you'll notice you've forgotten to exchange addresses 

and that, 
as they say, 
is all she wrote:	
			nothing 

and nothing and lifts the page to the candle and watches as the tiny flame bends its head, licks the paper—ashes, a kiss from lips 
black with gloss

and bends again:
the taste of smoke spreading 
thin across the violet span of night that burns 
the rain, delicious here like wavelets crushing themselves 
against the shore
she imitates the songs of birds
says no one loves her
her mask glistens with venom
her voice with barbed wire
		
they're walking in a straight line, and, watching them — faith 
is singing in the dark