A Rock in the Shape of the World
We are watching a new show, “American Terrorist,”
bride beheading her groom, living room in flames.
Revolution is televised after all. It’s not too
surprising to sing through the apocalypse, a raga
on the stereo before it dies of ache, the bed turned
black, dissolving in the burning yard, a diorama
of blue afternoon. We finger the left-behind arches
of capitalism, frost-bite on everything we touch.
Now we are in re-runs, oohing and aahing as if for
the first time. You pose as Outlaw; I, a flatfooted Grace
Slick, singing of outlaws—specimens of another age.
Revolution makes a new shape, blood on the wings, leaving
us not as we were. You bargain for this rock, the blue world;
bargain away our one clean spoon. My eyes ache with surprise.
In river light, frog and heron watch our hips as we dance.
They point to our hard, twinned spin, carving pillows out of sky.