Clearly, nothing is sacred. Words are iron, unfiled. Not the death of irony, but of calm, of kind. Make a fist of your arthritic hand. Words flame like joints, (un)like the bombing in Gaza. Four boys captured in a photo running: photo of four bodies on a beach. A rebel fighter tells his Russian master he shot down the wrong plane. The loops in my daughter's hair cannot be unwound. Egrets pace a circuit behind the lawn mower, necks bobbing. The sharpest mantel is of hurt. Air hammers could break it, but with such a degraded sound. Look for the geometry of cure, a flour sifter's stuttering. Draw it on a board; leave it for the next class to memorize.
--18 July 2014