moral clarity

warm sun, an unseen woman hums
the green plaza enacts the arcane
word: mellow

streets in America are reduced to thoughts
ears are pinned back like samovars
reefed moments oblige us to cringe
we’ve eaten all the candy
dust is settling

every summer the explosions come back
alighting on the forked spasm of foam
the rhythm of the silence waits
for this purple storm to pass
will that be us, or just our worst invention:
the idea of kings.

6/10/03