Poem: Fugitives

I'll be posting an op-ed piece here soon.  But for now, here is a poem from my collection, Gordian Butterflies.  Best to all!

Owl

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Fugitives

hurt are we,
troublesome,
our guilt dirty steak knives
that slew sacred cows.

unseen are we,
a battle over Andromeda,
mischievous in nooks
of faint mausoleums.

no preacher freed us,
no Sappho or Sartre,
no Buddha-rung gong
rippling our revival--

no crucifix,
no lysergic diethylamide,
no death or exodus
or creed--

we just saw.
exhumed ourselves,
swept off the webs
of skyscrapers
and cell phones,

washed off the dirt
of What-Must.
we looked at a world
beyond stress-chewed faces

and saw it was good.


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