LANGUAGE

and there are
these mornings where
language is an awkward
stone lodged in
my throat

where the sun is
beautiful liquid down these
frightened streets but
my hands have been cut off
at the wrists

my head fills with static
and the baby won’t stop screaming
and gorky is found standing
three feet above the
earth

or not standing but
spinning

swaying to the
harsh music of crows as
van gogh walks into the middle
of his last field

aims his gun at the sky
and squeezes the trigger

blows this wasted day and
all of the ones that
will follow into
dust