Poem of the Week

                     It turns out however that I was deeply
Mistaken about the end of the world
                     The body in flames will not be the body
In flames but just a house fire ignored
                     The black sails of that solitary burning
Boat rubbing along the legs of lovers
                     Flung into a Roman sky by a carousel
The lovers too sick in their love
                     To notice a man drenched in fire on a porch
Or a child aflame mistaken for a dog
                     Mistaken for a child running to tell of a bomb
That did not knock before it entered
                     In Gaza with its glad tidings of abundant joy
In Kazimierz a god is weeping
                     In a window one golden hand raised
Above his head as if he’s slipped
                     On the slick rag of the future our human
Kindnesses unremarkable as the flies
                     Rubbing their legs together while standing
On a slice of cantaloupe Children
                     You were never meant to be human
You must be the grass
                     You must grow wildly over the graves