I
BEAUTY
the vulgars that fall from these brutal lips
are not those of mine, dry from the heat
that pours off of their poems that stings
my face when read aloud
by god, someone told me that because things
were soaked in plagues and hounded by friars
carrying gold underneath their rags
people needed something to let their minds wander
from the depths: beauty
now that the plagues have gone their separate ways
and the friars have gone back to their temples
to count their gold,
now that the flowers are blooming for once,
the grass is once again stiff on our bare backs
that we have had too much succulentness
and it is time to take it out on words
with words
any man who looks out his window knows
that sweetness does not return, always:
the beggars are no longer the ones who take away
from what other men give to appease the LORD
and sometimes the children that should kiss the green
(as Blake said so many times)
instead lie somewhere in sand or in concrete
waiting for something the looks green or brown
or red or anything to put in their mouths
and taste for once -
now i pray that that man, looking out his window,
seeing,
will turn back to his work and find
a book
of my poems
and pick them up and see that one can see the world
with something that i will never let willingly die
then go out
into the briskness of the season
and make something for the others
from the self
from the love
from the beauty
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