Sarejevo Poem

Voice Card  -  Volume 31  -  Stuart Card Number 3  -  Tue, Mar 1, 1994 11:06 PM

From poem central, here's a latest offering (expand the text field to get the full lineation of the poem, please).

BBC Stringer (Above the City of ___________, Early November)
"Fool, . . . look in thy heart, and write!"

Shells: Like earth coughing up ribbons of blood. The moon

Soaks the besieged city in a firth of clouds. Mud
Everywhere, like the ashes of ceasefires. Soon
The shells hit -- a soft, not unsatisfying thud.

"What happens 'down there' is an unfelt dream," I note,
As soldiers drink, play cards, and the afternoon
Rain, night really, bleeds the ink off what I wrote.

Now, closer, shellfire shocks branches from the trees.
This pine needle feels like a soft, fiberous bone.
Deer will sleep here once the soldiers leave.

A week earlier, in their capital city, ensnared
In a woman's scent, my cock a pricked balloon,
I slept with tides of a prostitute's wavy hair

Nestled under my chin. That was what felt real.
What cannot be caught in flesh becomes a moan,
Sleep, that city where we who are all blind feel.

I wish she had changed me into wishes of a lover's far
Imagining. Boredom has turned viscious in its gloom.
Above this sadness I see cysts of stars.

Why, when I look in my heart, is there so little room?