Above, the winds blew sorrowful
Tears from the weeping sky,
Which wet the hair of that woeful
Girl who sunk her head to hide
Beneath the shelter of her brow,
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It’s as simple as this: her hair looked soft on her cheek
And it took my breath away, my heart
In a thousand pieces- I never decided this,
Longed to ignore it, to not imagine
What could be, don’t you think I tried
To lock it all inside of me?
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Records continued to spin,
the canvas industry remained powerful as ever,
and writers briefly looked up from their page,
grateful for a moment’s excuse
to explain why they weren’t writing.
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Ascending Dot, I knew your Grandfather.
He went from beetle strength to beetle strength
(strength is the sword he bears, the mailed garb
the stone-faced no-face). Late, the driveway was
a murdering meadow where he crept, and lived.
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A blindfold hued the eggshell of her dress:
Some hands held heads, fresh-washed with many tears…
For she was six and ten, no more, no less.
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Here is the message “hello world”
from the newest computing language in my brain.
I stand in digital space with my machine gun
spraying nothingness with ones and zeros.
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I wander through lands sun-kissed by your dust…
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four months out from a sunflower bloom.
somewhere outside kyiv is a clearing, budding
sunflowers poke through the snow; turgid,
a burned-out BTR rests its hull against the earth.
all falling through my dreaming.
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