mandala
here at the end of august with
the sky hammered flat and dull and
the sun a white glare from
every direction and the way that i
breathe you in like a darker
form of oxygenand the maps are all lies
and the politicians whores and
the walls all cool to the touchyour flesh
where it presses against mine
and the days laid end to end
like corpsesthe corpses stacked
like firewoodand you tell me that it
has to end
and i tell you that i love you
and neither of us hears
the other
the children are born and
some of them live
the streets have names
that i can never rememberi lose you and then
find you again in a different room
in another year
and your taste is familiarthe war is over
but the soldiers still diethe city is in flames
and your scars have faded but
haven't gone away and
this is the only story i knowthese are the only days we have
tell me they matter
