Michael S. Collins – Ⅱ
Drunk
Thrown out into trembling air where a snowstorm
Is forming, sliding and slipping on terra firma, he
Goes back on his own track over footprints
The snow doesn’t bother with; he stumbles, knowing, as
Snow knows dust it forms on, that his tree of veins—
reticulate tips of generations—carry no sanctioned blood, only
A spray of red cries escaped from the planet’s
Hip flask of massacres. Falling face down, he recalls
How early on, his tongue jutting into language like a pier, he tasted
The raw salt that forms on sentences, and thought,
“surely every wave has its own flavor and song.
I’ll taste them all before I’m done.”
Thrown out into trembling air where a snowstorm
Is forming, sliding and slipping on terra firma, he
Goes back on his own track over footprints
The snow doesn’t bother with; he stumbles, knowing, as
Snow knows dust it forms on, that his tree of veins—
reticulate tips of generations—carry no sanctioned blood, only
A spray of red cries escaped from the planet’s
Hip flask of massacres. Falling face down, he recalls
How early on, his tongue jutting into language like a pier, he tasted
The raw salt that forms on sentences, and thought,
“surely every wave has its own flavor and song.
I’ll taste them all before I’m done.”