I was surprised to see someone post the intro to one of my poems as her status update on Facebook last night(she had just read my book.) One of the commenters asked if the poem was on the web - it isn't - so I'm posting it here so that she can link to it.
The currency of language is miniscule,
Cragged, unforgiving -
Like the minutiae of coastlines.
Even grains of sand have space between.
What binds language is what clumps the earth -
Belief, it seems – belief in the word, in the scabrous fingertip -
Vessels containing vessels containing nothing
But themselves, matryoshka of tongue and sod.
Still, rain falls like white reeds
Bending in the wind.
Late March, the lengthening days mass on the horizon...
Cancer may be eating my body.
These days, I listen to the sky, blue hooks and foliage,
Celestial radio riff.
Endless addition and subtraction, and always
The same result – terminus, zero.
Sixty-thousand men once built a lake of mercury
To catch the rising sun -
To be slaughtered by the Emperor
Who decorated each decapitated corpse
With red bracts of Bougainvillea blossom.
If time stops at any given point, (all of which must exist
Simultaneously, unless only one persists)…
Along this line, ideas form at the speed of light,
Holy theory of everything, with an energy
Less than nothing, giving all the time you want…no matter…
Pink clouds scud across a heedless sky
And the willow buds unfurl like chrysalides.
In another country, men scratch in the earth.
Causes Alex Grant Supports
Southern Poverty Law Center