One hundred breaths split the air
as I lean
on the only pine tree I find.
It’s early or late, it’s breezy or hot.
The fields are dry. Summer is near.
The horses are everywhere,
strangely galloping a dream,
but I can’t remember
how to call them,
so I stand back, watch them pass.
History can't be rushed.
We didn't have time to see the village,
we didn't have time to see the house fall
to build light out of mud,
nor did we see time burning.
The city is missing,
and we've saved others,
our backs turned.
What happened
is a different reality in everyone's mind,
but the direction we took
tells us the world doesn't end
when we force air out of bones.
Now we know the myth
by the cup of coffee going cold,
realize we were never told
how to take
We say lightning has no wings
when it slides down our houses
We say loss is just a condition
we acquire to bury our pity further
We say the bleeding hands
on the table filled with red wine
imported products and passports
are just reminders of
who we have become
We have no titles no birthright
no groves or Shakespeare
to return to
We apologize for the fear
growing out of our ribs
Apologize for the numbers
still etched on our tongues
