time capsule

February 11, 2007

Night speaks to morning, dirt is turning,
these words are incomplete.

Because we are chasing wryd still
it is too soon to speak. You ate an empire

of spiders to catch your flies,
then thought you would burst

till you were swallowed in turn by the curling tarmac
of the road. A corpse rolled in carpet.

In Bagdad, Republican hubris and Ottoman pride
pile Babel high on a funeral pyre

sprinkled with the popping eyes of saints
who will soon ask for their names to be removed

from papers they never signed. My words will sink from the night.
But they are not yet ripe. I put them with the roots, for later.


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