all the wars have ended

Look beyond as far as you can see—
the wars have ended. No more
blood spatter. A large man plays piano
in the street, with whatever's left
of his inside that listens to river's hymn—
sweeter than ever before. The fervor's gone.
And lightning's a mere sheet of heat.
One thousand rafts and rowboats have come to shore.
Five hundred horses nicker
in sun drenched fields near shredded fences.
Women rock and sing themselves to sleep.
But the children
have no hands or fingers.
The children have no mouths or teeth.

i am not asleep

Cento After Arecelis Girmay

and I wish I could remember what we did with our faces.
The weather of the house, dressed in sparrows
and daylight. Sunlight falling over us.
The sixteen stars keeping time. Your heart, a fist
of windows and church-bells. Obscene, the beauty.
Then, the wind came down—it had ten hands.
The rain fell down. I flew into it
from the diving board. You stood in the doorway.
Like a lighthouse. Back then, I wanted to stand
and hallelujah. But all night the rain.
So we praised the deep, dark machine. The clamor
of planets. Swing black night in the glow
of the quiet work—now, a set of arms. Now
a membrane of music. And the fog moved in like a wolf.