hope is a creek in the mountains
the waterless desert air around it
indifferent to its defiance
the trickle echoes, calls out for rain
in the sexually polarized city, far below
where the strappy things beckon and deny
where the flat colours of men
move in straight lines
hope is a four letter word
hope is the anvil that looms
over geometric streets
and when it rains, shit
it fucking pours
the birdbath runneth over
& the bird is lost in the water
but today, the air is still
the sky is an empty battlefield
where the frayed songs of ghosts
are assigned to flowers
grown alongside the walls
memory is the lemon tree
after the fruit has fallen
we forget, but
the streets were drunk with its flowers
hope is a photograph of things to come
and no one believes
belief is passe
dreams are cliches
but if life was ever worth living
the resurgent rain will return
will rise again
and a symposium of clouds
will douse the canyons with hope
will call to the sleeping animals
will fill the saguaros with motion
and we, the inanimate
we of naked heart and bullied brain
we'll rise with seven arms
put down our chalices of resignation
and fill the blind and past due cities
with a torrent of amnesty,
with the green god of hope.
Nov. 3, 2009
Tucson, Ariz.
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