To Stay Alive Is a Pretty Good Thing to Do

So many keen, unchewed words have flown at me
that my eyes are no longer scarred by their passing.

First I loved the idea,
then hated the fact — foot-caught,
snap-trapped and dragged to a graceful tower.

Here I am,
the first man in my family to break
night across an angry knee,
the first to kiss
the forlorn face of dawn.

And oftentimes cold air
comes all the way from Lake Michigan
to breathe in my Mississippi home,
silk curtains puffing
where there are no windows.

The crow of day
eats corn from my extended hand.
The crow of day
sews the bitter cloth of my last uniform.

And oftentimes I think
that all I learned from poetry is this —

The bullet is a mad thing.
Only the bayonet knows
what it's about.