A Brief Respite
When the battle dies it’s as if
oceans have calmed,
the world has balanced
evenly upon its spear tip.
The dead gather their organs and go about
washing themselves from the grass.
Crows, cicadas, rains return.
People walking empty streets
who hear from behind
their names mysteriously whispered
turn to find everyone they have ever kissed.
In a moment’s order
poems gasp for one free breath-
relieved of the burden of choosing
who next to vanish and which midnight street to people.
-published by Third Wednesday