Marc Swan, 7/11


In the moments that become minutes,
I try to describe the sound of glass
breaking, the rigor of rust burning solitary
holes in dense metal, the kiss of a butterfly
on a dandelion petal, all irrelevant
it seems in the course of one day in Croatia
or Kosovo in 1993 or maybe the West Bank
in 2011 or downtown Detroit any time
in the last twenty years. The kiss of death
is like a mirror image of life in 21st century
America, Yesterday I spat upon a bush
and the bush reared back and spat at me
as I watched a solitary seagull lope and list
in an easterly breeze. The windows shook
like a dice roll and the oaken door began
to squeak. I waited, yes, I waited for one
more sign, a revelation, if you will, of what
the next round of usual bullshit might be.

Promote. Poetry.
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