It begins with a gesture and then grows
into a military tank that begins
to speak in death-speak.
A guard’s eye watches
from behind a screen that conceals
his embarrassing thoughts about being.
He goes tramping across whatever continent
he finds in front of him, relishing the metals
and gemstones as if they were canapes
and day was a dance party
and night was a novel set in a featherbed.
Chapter four is for those young enough
to not know what took place
in the garden, those who didn’t
have to hide under a hedge, watching
as the Minotaur’s feet came closer.
I was told to breathe in/breathe out,
like an iron lung blowing air into an acorn
into which a pinhole had been drilled
on either side. Listen, I was told,
to the death rattle while you pretend
you’re underwater in a river of kindness
that loves only you.
You know nothing will get you through this.