erbacce-press

DISCONNECTED #1

No tragedy: the tracks,
squirming in the rage of
chronic difficulty, nor the hell
of occupancy, truth
of an indefinite existence.

Understand the howl of the flesh
cramped in this half-cured trauma.

Flat, lungless: all is image,
else it is forgotten
like most memories, and remembrance
mostly a betrayal anyway.

I want like an unadorned finger
with poetry in the fist too heavy
to be born, and to love
properly without the hellish command of war
where every word hurtles to a wound.

I want the sun
to exhibit herself
more humanely:
forgive; or me
refine my hostility.

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