to the problem of the epic
because is a temporary solution, I am not
capable of analysis
or rather too capable, of a painful one
so in opening my mind—I see Palestine first
and always there is a moon that hangs
low, these tulip bulbs come head first
all will be picked, don’t worry
I am not a discerning person. Too
full of a desire
that desire being tied to love
but where does meaning come from
in this bouquet of the dissimilar
in an equation I don’t have the language to translate
to verse, I can see a puzzle instead
or from its shape
a line of bumps across
a back, bloody from fingernail crescents
“let’s forgive, let’s forgive”
is what I think it speaks
but how to? Who do I call?
on a windy day before a hike
it is cold and white
if in a shared place, how would I feel?
alone, I feel alone
the wind hiccups and coughs
can you hear me on this phone call?
the answer must be no
at this stage, with no money,
my days are long and slow
so there is time to imagine the ramifications of
forgiving, forgetting,
and not and the equation
of a long life too
feeling a fictional gaze
it’s so sickly
that it turns the day opaque
a clear soul would be preferable
to know who I am, at every point
rejects the imagination
of commercials,
even popular protests,
how my brain is too weak for them
could be a long sentence
split up over several pages
as though several men running in a pack
that must naturally divide
the fast from the slow, at some point
these soldiers became the men I’m seeing
the chairs pulled out from the table
were horses
these jokes—rapes. And still the rapes I suppose
and still the horses
have their place
in this cruel world,
in this cruel country
I’m obligated to tell a kind of truth
that exists in a universal way
but can never be understood
in a universal way, this day will continue
past its apex and begin a new day
that will be just as cruel
and this day will be a torrent, while the windows’
fog from condensation
you can imagine, although
maybe you shouldn’t
interiority to everything
while the trail of water runs down the pane
I’m synthesizing in the way
of a documentary
the way these tulips must droop
while this empire doesn’t fall but must
my disgust of all men
the way time is an annulet
which must allow the soldier a poem
although I do not permit it
I am obligated to have a headache
and to read more than I’d like