Two Poems About The Same Person

Choosing a Capital

Your book has fallen, spilling its intelligence to me,
and your green dress has folded like a paper crane
that tells of dreams of Unicorns and other myths.
Do not belong, do not belong to language in this room.
Your censer empty by your side has lost its scent
and lies askew for other worshippers to fill again.

The Knights of God behind you lean into their age,
with swords of truth that turn to sticks they walk upon.
There are six ages in the army of the just behind you,
and one more left for you to know and never tell to us.
They taught you truth so many years ago, these men,
and now you are the mistress of their red revolt.


Black and White and Red

In revolution, feudal times,
a feather on the breath of God
flew high and caught your eye,
distracting you from tears.

Which medics can kill death?
Which healers heal all women
so bereft and empty?
Which Master do you serve?

A rich sky tells of thunder,
a poor stream tells of drought
and all the world will ask you
if death could not be bought.

And rhyme is not a point here,
with the storm about the break,
and all your tears of sorrow
are turned to rain and stream.