by Wick Fields
There is so much I'd like to tell you
About the shape of this earth
About the strength of your skull
But the flames, they must be tended to.
For as we are both keenly aware
Their flickering shadows
Dance into even our best conversations.
Still, we sit facing one another
Our loveliest words trapped in our throats.
Oh the flames Whipping wild at city gates In Rome and Beijing and Cleveland Frightening the old Half cold in their graves And surrounding the young Half hung by their age. Oh the flames Lapping low at
by Wick Fields Every night I'm revived From the day's incursions By the language of the dead Because I'll tell you this No army can march Over Raymond Carver's mercy.
by Wick Fields There isn't enough time To express the wholeness of things There is only time To survive the blast.