Water Grave
We cross under
the midnight shield
and learn that bullets
can curse the air.
A symposium
of endangered stars
evicts itself to
the water. Another
convoy leaves the kiln.
The crowded dead
turn into the earth’s
unfolded bed sheet.
We drift near banks,
creatures of the Mekong,
heads bobbing like
ghosts without bodies,
toward the farthest shore.
With every treading
soak, the wading leg,
we beg ourselves to live,
to float the mortared
cartilage and burial
tissue in this river yard
of amputated hearts.
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