made of words,
all those little nothings or trivialities
that once were gathered in particular ways,
gelled with tenderness or anger
issued with hope and prayer
let loose in a map
where they were embraced
by country and citizenry,
granted temporary visa,
sent to homeless shelter,
made resident and citizen,
given unbelievable jobs
pensioned off,
mugged, mauled, raped, robbed and
allowed to die.
And I, word-turner
reconfigurator and mendicant
taker from one and giver to another
like a fond father who loves but does not claim,
I send eye along horizon
waiting
and waiting
for children I know will never return
to burn me with anger or love
and bury my ashes
or toss them into moving waters,
as per the death-rights of the privileged.
I will go in silence.
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