Wait
Between the poem and the bomb
there is no common language
intense
and tenuous
a people who have lost their place
wait at the back of the
crowd
picking
up memories
handkerchief small scrap of paper list
remnant cloth of a small
dress
you
have to wait for
what is the sharp breaking open of
the heart comes
not in
a
surgery surely not
in a blowing up but what is poetry
but the swoosh through
that
catches breath
and takes us to the front of the line
between the poem and the
bomb
there
is no
but there is glimpse and transformation
