an inane sinner
sits in sallow silence,
sheltered by self-spun
shadows,
may or may not
sanctify as a saint
softly, a sinister stimulus
seeps in innocence
through the seams
of the sealed soul —
a subtle summons,
serpentine and slow
but sense has sunk;
sanity stands shattered
he salutes the sickness,
smiling at its sting,
and swallows the signal
as though it were salvation
Heaps of words,
destruction
there’s no land on earth
which hasn’t been hurt
by the cruelty of
the tongue
dirt, dust, all around the grey air,
syllables fall like ash,
soft, persistent, impossible
to sweep away
a phrase can bruise a city,
a whisper can start a fire
that history pretends
was accidental
we sharpen vowels into weapons,
polish consonants until they gleam,
then act surprised
when blood follows the rules
mountains remember what
we said to them,
rivers carry insults downstream,
teaching the sea new ways
to pollute the mainland of civilization
words build homes, yes,
they also dig graves
with terrifying inimical patience
still we speak—
piling sound upon sound,
heaps of wounds,
hoping one day
they will mean a healing repair
