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Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Green Street

The traumatic event thus destroys the belief that one can be oneself in relation to others.
—Judith Herman’s Trauma & Recovery


Most are not wondrous thinkers. A train
does not come. We must exit the platform.


I tell the class diary is a political word. I’m
told I’m on edge by a wondrous thinker.


Am on edge. Off the train onto another. A
weapon can be used for mercy. I don’t like


where this is going. On the street, I pass
the luxury condo with an indoor pool at


ground level. An indoor pool at ground
level can no longer be seen through the


window. I miss the spectacular waste. I touch
a surface and close my eyes to its molecules.


It isn’t true that this too shall pass. Without
ecosystem the world will close. My hand


glows with mutual cells. A student tells us
we are human; we want the same thing.


I want to believe her. I sip water, some lake
I never welcomed preoccupies me. I listen


to a line vesseled in the ground. Water runs
its small noun of symphonies. The edge


wills only so many windows and a girl long
dead did not change me—I had no future.

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