A poem to end your life
is a poem to end your life.
I am drained into your counting culture
There is a distant point between two cultures
that isn’t on any map of our galaxy.
The train we take will stop in the dramatic plains.
The train we take will stop in North Dakota
and our lives will be dramatically plain.
The exoskeleton of Sarah Palin will lie to us.
In our hearts, she is in blue, dressed in blue.
If the moon weren’t white,
I’d have a hero or two:
a dancer of laments,
a musician with three hundred feet,
a miraculous doll without a head.
If the days weren’t inside our hands
and behind our eyes,
I’d have a premonition about raising a hero
made of lily pads
and coffee grounds
and glitter and glitter and glitter.
If the letters of the alphabet
weren’t made of steel
but of liquid,
I’d have a thousand reasons to call you
a king and a skillet,
a Chaplinman of a different etiquette,
a star that rescues the sky
from turning gold and right
with a certain look of unreliable music
floating by and by.
If the desks of the world
and the queens of the world
I’d have a different life.