War without End
by Michael Brett

(title of a book seen in a political bookshop)

Mars is passing in front of the Sun.
And each now has his own calendars: the private ones tacked to pulse
And fear, the public ones crucified to scales of perfection, to
Dreaming topographies; to new old languages
Exhumed from holy books, kissed into weapons manuals, thrust into
Television directed by Goya

Our cut ears are not healed, no lactating Mary waits
By an owl, a coffin, a spade and the Moon.

The backwards countdown begins forever.
Mars is passing in front of the Sun.

Look. The Earth, a mazy pebble soars in an unaccustomed arc
Though your bathroom mirror face remains as stone and white.

The radio journalists are astrologers who follow you like a king.
They press their wisdom into your hands at breakfast.
They huddle in the campfire of your car.

They gargle with broken glass,
Lurching from vellum maps and dragons into daylight;
With generals, with scalpels they draw new fronts
Between kidney and scrotum, bathroom and attic.

Mars is passing in front of the Sun.

Copyright © 2011 - Michael Brett
Published: 10/13/11   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem