The buildings half-knocked down
are still inhabited by women
who beat the rugs in the morning
with battered brooms, who peel the bananas
with a wrist flick that speaks of
necessity and its hard blood taste
a blooming at the back of the tongue.
What is the world but a mouth
that demands feeding?
Peonies explode from a store front:
carmine, acid yellow, the tender white
of oblivion. Love is the secret dew
folded inside the envelope of a leaf
which is battered by many feet
walking across the unspeakable bridge
that leads to the tunnel of the twelve-hour
journey. Imagine a people who refuse
to believe in death, choosing instead
to valorize the charge of the one molecule
speeding forever though a blank screen of
space. Here is where the burning
occurs. Morning: you lift your dark cup,
and we drink.