Listen, I have nothing to say to the wren
that ruffles its feathers in my heart.
I do not swear my loyalty to men, to
presidents who walk on shards of skeletons
with a scroll of blood in their mouth.
Trust me, I owe no god my soul.
I have given all I can to the old bell
on that dusty road where tourists
walk daily to contemplate the strangeness
of God. I have trimmed my nails.
I have washed the blood of the animals
off my fingers. I took the last train
to Babel. I sold my language for two nickels.
I spoke in hums. I count on the birds
to lead me to the prairie where butterflies
build their dreams around the kindness of men.
I do not have hatred for the world. No.
I have disgust for the politics of men.
I know betrayal. But I know love, too.
I am a simple man with a simple mind.
The world looks not into my eyes,
but into my hands. They want to see the blood
before they touch the scar. People touch me,
& are shocked by their own sadness.
I have nothing to give the world except
for my heart. Its tired loop, tiny lullabies.
Its birds, the ballads of their wings. I can’t speak Ț
to the unlit lighthouse at the other end
of the river. Can’t speak to the shadow of the boy
who walks at the knife-edge of the greenfield.
I am held down by the metaphor. Listen,
I can’t tell you anything that would save your
life. I, too, am negotiating my own salvation.
What if I tell you not all my gods leave
their temples drunk?
What if I told you that I took my gods to a crossroad
& willed them to chorus
to the music of my own doubts?
I am not a simple man. I have the logic of fireflies.
See, I have nothing to say to the dove
perched on the hill of my heart.
I, too, am a child lost in a forest full of tired gods.