What shall become of us?
A lizard and a lie rule the gaze
While poison plucks the garden gone
Behind the wall.
Will we cry when it’s all over,
Shed a bloody tear?
And farmers with pitchforks pierce the snake–
Will the bloom follow, or
Only deformation’s weedy soil?
After the fall, a winter storm silences the din,
Stomps muffled cries below the boot-march,
A blanketed chill.
But April’s coil, the rattle and snare,
That’s the paralysis–and rise,
Warmly rise like parades floating
Ribbons round receding hairlines
And rust-red ties,
Like the Nile’s blood, the lines
Spill, crossed, cutting
Plastic strips yellow-black–
Lettered warning. Keep out.