Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Confession to the Agent

I have concealed weapons
& books you can't read
pressed roses from Algiers
sand on my black wool

with this needle I have
knotted coats & covers
I have lists of names
& I remember

In childhood I sat at your table
my hair a fused grenade
poetry a weapon's belt
You gave me calendars

of foreign landscapes
A pretty child, my seaglass eyes
slid to buckles
& fumbled fingers, the last stain

Watch me carefully
I cross the borders

(another one never sent out. It is true, however, that I grew up with agents.)


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