Still Abode of Stones

you know, polonius was going to die anyway

when he skips roles of do-it-yourself love

to vault faithful flashmobs in time

to translate that leftover scrap of

tongues spoken on peeled bedroom walls

with knives in wait without relations

carves into trees “no matter what, it can stop”

says a voice abducted from the throat

it is the joy of watching them go

tumbleweeds to the paired courses

that tear petty countries in two

lest we fear the break, we collide

systems of bodies downsized and retried

like the swing of neck watching tennis