Thursday, June 03, 2010

poem a sometimes

ON WATCHING A VIDEO OF A RUSSIAN WOMAN SMASHING BOTTLES IN A STORE

Oh, ceaseless fury,
slipping along your lake of spirits
and wine, your feet are pocked
by broken glass your hands rain down.
What systems created you?
Whose high pressure pressed up
your low? And upon which shore
will you land, vapor-drunk,
buffeting against
the mountains until
you disperse, are dispersed,
and wail no more?