Poetry & Democracy
Writing from a lone corner of the nation
I no longer recognize the difference
between the name of the wall and the wall
itself. I write a sound without dimension,
an utterance with no one to listen
for the radical aspirated roll
to the earth's edge, where difference ends.
The river has concealed itself in dust.
With the devil's rotting apples and our flags
I arrange a mosaic of god's face—
exhausted by the work of finding words
which never work, my usual worries
a synchronized gesture, a closing door.
I have no referent for the polar bend,
the orphic garden, radial descent.
I know life by the blurred periphery
of its passing, as if it were a train or
its caboose—its copper face or tail—
a ghost now very far from its body.
More Poetry & Democracy
In Defense of Predictability
I read a picture book to my son about a father crossing the border with his own son titled "La Frontera." My son just turned one and is too young to know what a border is, or that frontera means border in Spanish, or that there are two languages I am speaking to him, or that they are words that point to something outside of this small world made up of only us two, as he nestles himself next to me in his skinny pajamas before brushing his teeth and going to bed.Read Article