The bomb in my head makes it through the neighborhood
without exploding. The Christian blood is safe. The floral
carts survive. The weather-vanes pitch and spin. Wind
is light-headed and blowing. No ghosts will travel on its
silky rails this night. My oaths have soothed at the sight
of people’s faces. My anger took a wrong turn down an
alley, is lost among the dusty corridors of a secondhand
bookstore. If the people only knew, they’d be cheering me.
For the black-rot of my heart is into penance not revenge.
And all because I didn’t stay in my room but took a stroll
through the dancing hearts, the comic hats, sidewalks like
ironed handkerchiefs, all around me, the crackle of human
electricity and fever, drivers in their traffic cradle, pigeons
handfed by the girl with the face most round and bright
as moons. The pain in this bottle of me didn’t realize
that it could glow incandescent. My footsteps weren’t thinking
clouds and now they are. I can’t provoke what is no
longer in me. The future makes such a fool of today
that I may as well enjoy it. Sorrow will have other
dark and gloomy hours. For now, the shepherd of niceties
has never watched over a more willing hapless sheep.
Little does he know, he saves it from its own wolves.