Immaculate

And now I’m spinning
in the center of the square
while you count casualties in
fields of a different kind—
faster goes the neon light
spiraling down my spine

And I’m considering the gravity
that’s holding this scene together:
”Am I the center of this orbit, 
or just the one reeling?”
Mindlessly watching
the blur of buildings whose doors
look toward the steeple
staring down at me—exposing
this revolution as my kaleidoscopes twist
in the eyes of God.

And in the silence,
I hear the diamonds— 
crackling transparencies. 
So I sound the wailing sirens,
they’ll beckon the troops yet,

And I’ll be spinning fast enough
To brush the laurel out of my hair.

Left

For those of us gripping the splintery branch,
gritting our teeth and waiting—white-knuckled,
treading through the ashes—still fiery.

For those of us left with the rest of it,
heavy-hearted and losing—frozen
in the aftershock, all senses burning yet.

What's left is us tracing from memory
your shape—fingers numbing and weary,
cutting us open just to see.

For those of us pacing, memorizing
floorboards and breathing the
smoke-filled rooms—considering for too
long: the loneliness
of the hallway closet,
top shelf,
that box
left to hold all the things
that meant nothing to you.

What's left is this dizzying spin. 
Its hypnotic, eldritch doom—relentless.
Still, I'll always wave my flag for you,
even if it takes me.