richard greenfield

P A T R I O T

Over tombs of unknown soldiers

phosphorous stars sprayed nothing of

fate— theirs or mine: that owl

quelled in a cage. Their empty

sockets blinked with glowworms.

My bones might eventually certify

into hoax. The daisy cutter firework

elegies flowered in the night

over the spot, glowed friendly, and hung

with me until the annex.      

The vest-pocket charm said “ok—    

follow the fanfare home”    

so I cut past the hollow heart of public art

and shot a shooting candle toward

the black questions of an epitaph:

“I’ll only pour my soul into your soul.” 

I guess I felt phantom, damaged enough

to let the combat cry load into me.

T H E     F U T U R E

Voice rose, careless start:

the delusion of singing is enough—

an aggregate tune stranded

on the sticky trap of the tongue.

I vacated myself through the veil

of the other

( no nearer to that other).

The survivor entangled

in the wire asks for no witness,

no telling

of its costly crossings. 

But then

applause at negative daybreak,

coming out of the meadowland

headlock of their pity.

A regimen for some.

It’s the morning-after for me.

Interrupt me

with your history.