Poem 27
where does
our name lie
on its side
breathing or sleeping
sometimes
dead
where does
our identity fall
from the trees
very dry
where does our culture get
so stiff
of the hero
in the main street
at 11:45 pm
watching people
walk by
before
the murder
where does
our social justice breathe
and identity
where does
our art live
setting no one free
where does
our originality come from
like capitalism
and god
and mass produced shoes
where does
our dream live
fast asleep
when does
our time come
and
never again
Poem 3
your hands
tired hands
unfasten the dawn
your eyes
slow curtains
fold the wet mist
your skin
last wall between nations
takes away my name
your body
last ideology of the day
closes the room till tomorrow
your clothes
lie on the floor
where gravity lives
your sleep
where forgetfulness returns
and children play in your dreams
your feet
drifting away like boats
trying to swallow dawn’s sun
your eyes
where you make believe
to be yourself
your face
where you are already
someone else
your lips
where you copy and shout
the language of asteroids to your mirrors
your mouth
repeating our footsteps like folktales
talking of insurrections on the beaches
your empty pockets
instructions and intersections of bankrupt revolutions
where love is born
your love
where no one
is owned
your life
where death is a door
our skins will pass together