by Noel Rooney
[ poetry - april 09 ]
the embassies are broken; ribbons of larch
clack in the tortured seams, primary
astounding colours in the strew. murdered,
an icon dances out his offices
I closed my eyes, and the books were tongues
of flame. poetry is the angel of language.
a woodpecker's work is proven painless;
a mild man's monument ornately plain
janitor, explain how fortune is fixed
to the grim wheel, how the luckless flower
only turns, how animals thrive and die
and thrive again. it's still not understood
shattered glasses: there was celebration.
the rooks are brief: condolent absences