The morning a trellis I use to climb
into the day, reaching for our only
star, the moon a light in the darkness.
So much celestial light among
the material of us, witnesses to all
we have done. Speak stones, tell us
what sin of man has hardened you so.
The son of Luis returns after months
beyond the border that men have put
in their own hearts. The fifth of May
every day for a family made whole, made
as it always should be. Today, rain
will wash away the dust of our labors
that collects on our idle vehicles. Tomorrow
some storm will remind us all of some
heavenly fury we cannot be sure exists.
How deep goes the light
that let eyes see barbed wire, that warned
of trouble in twin high-beams like
haunted, obsessive eyes. Is it enough
to know that we have done this all
to ourselves? Tomorrow it could be
Mo’s daughter or Pablo’s son. I see this
worry in the lines on their faces. Speak soil,
tell us what the blood of man tastes like.
In some future the light will calm the spirits
of man. In some future, these times are already
something the wise have labeled for the ages.