sallekhana
Well-known member
its in everything and nothing.
its in the jackets that
men button up around
their skin.
its in the essence of
a belly, sacked with
the simple unfolding
of an ear, in a box
or tissues, or a
song on the radio.
a can of beer floats
down the creek,
half sunk; a
silver shine in
the seven o'clokc
sun.
a small child jumps in
a puddle instead of
playing jump-rope with
his friends while a
woman shakes off her
umbrella and sips cocoa
in a room only lit
bu the fire in the fireplace.
we have everything and nothing.
the drunks roll back their
sheets silently singing a
song:
dance with me birds,
dance with me.
All you bodies with
your hands resting on
your chest,
all you women with
warm legs and
french toast,
dance with me.
let the earth stand still
for just one second so
we can grasp it with
our broken fingers and
wrinkled palms,
age raking at
our hearts
and lungs.
its in nothing.
its in a bint and borken
cigarette passed off from one soldier
to the next, hiding in a fox hole looking
through the woods for a flash f light or escaping breathe.
its in nothing.
in the city of dallas,
in the passing cars filled with
loud children and happy parents,
its in the dizzy laughter of
a teenager drunk at some
party, or in the pages of
books that fill the college
student's dorm.
its in the trees, the houses,
the dirt, the concrete statues,
the small children who say too much
but speak too little, the cars,
the family, the beds, the parents
who tuck their children in and
kiss them on the head, or the
mom who's family is reduced to
letters in the mail from overseas.
its in the bombs, the bullets, the smoke,
the fire, the blood, the cries of
grown men who just had their best
friend die in their arms, the numbers,
the buttons, the medals, the screams,
the victory, and the loss.
its in everything.
in the beaches of Normandy
and the sunken ships of Midway,
its in the bullets burried in
the hills of Guadalcanal,
in the buildings and mountains
of ruble in Europe,
and in the roses in the fields that were
once the camps that housed the jews.
its in the eyes, the skin,
the hair, the bones, the blood,
the brains, the hearts, the lungs,
the coats, the shirts, the pants,
the socks, the shoes, the untied
laces, the cheap streets, the
empty pockets, the rinkles,
and the tears of every veteran.
its in the battle planes of
Pearl Harbor and all the men,
women, and children who died there,
its in the wars, the homes, the hearts,
and all thats in between, its in
all the dead things that figure the sky,
and all the living that know it.
its in and is nothing and everything.
its in the jackets that
men button up around
their skin.
its in the essence of
a belly, sacked with
the simple unfolding
of an ear, in a box
or tissues, or a
song on the radio.
a can of beer floats
down the creek,
half sunk; a
silver shine in
the seven o'clokc
sun.
a small child jumps in
a puddle instead of
playing jump-rope with
his friends while a
woman shakes off her
umbrella and sips cocoa
in a room only lit
bu the fire in the fireplace.
we have everything and nothing.
the drunks roll back their
sheets silently singing a
song:
dance with me birds,
dance with me.
All you bodies with
your hands resting on
your chest,
all you women with
warm legs and
french toast,
dance with me.
let the earth stand still
for just one second so
we can grasp it with
our broken fingers and
wrinkled palms,
age raking at
our hearts
and lungs.
its in nothing.
its in a bint and borken
cigarette passed off from one soldier
to the next, hiding in a fox hole looking
through the woods for a flash f light or escaping breathe.
its in nothing.
in the city of dallas,
in the passing cars filled with
loud children and happy parents,
its in the dizzy laughter of
a teenager drunk at some
party, or in the pages of
books that fill the college
student's dorm.
its in the trees, the houses,
the dirt, the concrete statues,
the small children who say too much
but speak too little, the cars,
the family, the beds, the parents
who tuck their children in and
kiss them on the head, or the
mom who's family is reduced to
letters in the mail from overseas.
its in the bombs, the bullets, the smoke,
the fire, the blood, the cries of
grown men who just had their best
friend die in their arms, the numbers,
the buttons, the medals, the screams,
the victory, and the loss.
its in everything.
in the beaches of Normandy
and the sunken ships of Midway,
its in the bullets burried in
the hills of Guadalcanal,
in the buildings and mountains
of ruble in Europe,
and in the roses in the fields that were
once the camps that housed the jews.
its in the eyes, the skin,
the hair, the bones, the blood,
the brains, the hearts, the lungs,
the coats, the shirts, the pants,
the socks, the shoes, the untied
laces, the cheap streets, the
empty pockets, the rinkles,
and the tears of every veteran.
its in the battle planes of
Pearl Harbor and all the men,
women, and children who died there,
its in the wars, the homes, the hearts,
and all thats in between, its in
all the dead things that figure the sky,
and all the living that know it.
its in and is nothing and everything.
