<^><^>

I don't drink Coca-Cola;
I think about Coca-Cola.
The big trucks go by, preparing the fizz
of battery acid red.
Knocking the enigmatic insignia
from my soul's template,
filling the basin of a baseball stadium
with great power--it is opening day.
I have bitten my lips for a whole year.
The patriotic air is unfamiliar, now,
forever, extends.  My country is dying with me.
The resurrection and the river of lifeless
space pouring through a wide crack
in immediacy, stuns
a quiet pigeon from the high-domed
air and lands him unflapping
but for a twitch on the pitcher's mound.
I try not to mistake life for death,
death for life.