A fear of place, of breeding to Haunt the place, of want and if Of place, the trove giving love Of place, the trove matching it And mess of place -
If it is possible to have in language – popular or literary – hooks that thrive on an awe of the hallowed; words, poems, books that convey the sense that the key to this fascinating ineffable lies in somehow giving up your voice in favor of the few who have crossed on to the other side, the side that looks down only to be relieved; does that not goad us in forgetting genocide every took place, and even if it did, what’s the big deal?
This tree will not sound out
Beginnings; it will not prepare
A crowd to tumble the heart’s
Mend to a clearing; more acid
Is the earth’s bile dream believing
Catacombs to be phoenixes, armor
To be insufficient and the roots
Of earth as linking the ends: here
Where it starts and the outmost in
Mess of place… sigh.
A mess indeed..