What is in your hand?
is it bleeeding or just a rose flower?

butterfly
step by
step
brick
nail by
nail
snail
sitting
in the hair
of a willow
dandelion
pillow

I don’t know
the ifs and thens
the chance
the firsts and lasts
congrats
i’m slow

i see lacks
and scraps
the straw
the traps

and the grass
laughs
and the trees
dance

behind the curtain
is uncertain
flowers and claps
a window perhaps
or just a glass
for a glance
into the past
after all
it is behind
it’s this wall
that makes me small
it’s this mind
that makes me fall

I mean it
I'm in it
I'm initiating intrusive
I'm bruising
Amusing
You

You are
You mean
You are a dream
I mean it
I'm in it

Think the saddest thing about this land
Is how hard it tries to live
To hold, to let go— how it
Stills in the middle of a catastrophe
How it sings
Only when no one’s about to hear
How its silence
Is never wholly true

How the clouds go by
And the suns
The crescents grow up and pass
And people—
Yet it, shuddering, remains
And how it struggles
To weave peace out its
Wavering fields

And ever-dancing cities—
The dance of a Persian woman
In shackles
How it slaughters its own flowers
In search of their seeds
How it breaks apart
In the middle of a night
In the middle of a little girl’s question
In the middle of a smile

How the maidens
Keep on hanging their dresses to dry
And children keep hunting
For helpless worms
And snows melt into grasses
Till they too sail away
Yet it, shuddering, remains

How it will gnaw away the town
It carved itself
Feast upon its own beautiful bones
How hard it struggles to stir
In its own queer death
And how it will wither
And wither, and wither
And not tire—

It is its own hateful god.