The bandits attacked
in the woods.
They took nothing,
merely cut out
the eyes
of the children.
They did not touch
the adults
who lay
cowering
in fear
pretending not to see.
Now,
the only painters
left
work in time
with no apprentice.
The poets?
They draw secretly,
using the teeth
of the dead for pens,
pull them
out one by one
after composing.
The sounds of her
rage across paper,
a foreign language
can be spoken but
never felt.
Her secrets are greater than yours,
and her emptiness
more than you
could ever be.
In black and white
I watch
her flicker
as
she weeps
perfectly.
The cries
of our neighbors'
love echo
between windows
tonight.
Los Angeles - 10/27/06
