And the Deep Elegy That Rises From The Mountains Has No Home

Wherever the girl who can abide no violence has slept this night, I want to be there, encircled by her arms as if I had no history but this one, praising the naked day for its infinite possibilities and passion for rectification. Surely in some ministry somewhere someone in power is deliberating how best to cement his authority, and it is only the weak of heart, or the truly resilient in spirit, who can afford to pause and weep for the paltry ego that resides there. It's the first of June, and every possible cherry tree is blossoming forth, with only a random bird and a poet with more time on his hands than he knows what to do with to praise and feast on it. But let that not be the issue here: The question, rather, is where that woman sleeps and how to find her, and of all that has gone wrong already and is likely to continue, and what bird shall triumph by feasting on cherries, and who shall sleep with so imperfect a peace in his heart, and who shall weep, and who shall be comforted, and whose little rapture shall finally win the day.