HIGHWAY CHAINS

The whip comes with candy here.
My own country treats me like
a stranger on every corner.
From a diamond of unharmed
sky, between shackled trees
wires that multiply
trials from human being to human being
a frolicking goddess hand
in madness of forced error
cloud by cloud and landscape by landscape
may lash us out of our sugar forever.

My whip came in with a huge
bronzed clover on the headboard.
I drove it into the harbor for a song.
Nothing happens here
even with a tragedy to usher
it in: factory sealed windows
and doors, heads glued
to a grid work of merciless ceiling,
inflexible material astonished to
be alive among the melting.

Down comes the immaterial whip
and all things are astonished,
smitten by pain of classified murder
into care for life, temporarily.
Fuck all their death my dawn
trouble from the beak of the eye
planetary-wide derangement.