when the plane lands, all the ukrainians applaud.  all that matters is we do not watch the pilot, who can be sure of safe passage. let the sky find its own wings.  it knows destination, can see how the white-wings gull.   careful now: with your soiled hands, take down the flag.  mid-flight he turned to me and asked: in which of these houses did you lose your grandma’s tongue?   i’ve let myself be cornered by absurdities; they sell me insurance, compare my swords to roses.  when you fell in love at the sawmill i knew your heart was wood, your gold as good as your word and smoke billowing from the engine.   they filled a hole with the mother of fists, lowered the curtains dividing hope from bread.  those who have shared a bed have died together.  the ones we named have been taken from us, only a lasting fragility speaks for them.  by the time the masters ring the bell it would have gone into hiding:  empty street lots lost in the long light,  burnt bridges snowing ash on public gardens, a kind of catatonic shock for grass. this used to be a school for the deaf; now it is used for target practice, and no one is disturbed?    but what if you fret  about the bombed out library more than the bomb?  the job of the artist is to say what art is.

the job of the artist is to say what art is, but what if you fret about the bombed out library more than the bomb? this used to be a school for the deaf; now it is used for target practice and no one is disturbed.   by the time the masters ring the bell it would have gone into hiding:  empty street lots lost in the long light,  burnt bridges snowing ash on public gardens, a kind of catatonic shock for grass.  those who have shared a bed have died together.  the ones we named have been taken from us, only a lasting fragility speaks for them.  they filled a hole with the mother of fists, lowered the curtains dividing hope from bread.  when you fell in love at the sawmill i knew your heart was wood, your gold as good as your word and smoke billowing from the engine.  i’ve let myself be cornered by absurdities; they sell me insurance, compare my swords to roses.  mid-flight he turned to me and asked: in which of these houses did you lose your grandma’s tongue?   careful now with your soiled hands. take down the flag.  let the sky find its own wings.  it knows destination, can see how the whitewings gull.    all that matters is we do not watch the pilot. who can be sure of safe passage?  when the plane lands, all the ukrainians applaud.