Disasters of War

It is September, and I lunch in rain.
I do not like your city. I do not

Welcome the filling sky as I once could.
I notice nothing, however fatal,

In the foreground. I discard those ballads
Devoted to empire and disaster.

I belong among the hanged, whose ladders
Have drawn back at last, who slow the wind.

I belong among sources of etchings
And illumination. I too belong

Among what follows, is again ample,
Unruly, the suffering that becomes

Easier to record when it belongs
To another. I wander for restraint

And clarity. I have learned little yet,
And remember less. I miss my red cat

Centering himself on my books to sleep.
I miss the world calculated and small.

I want nothing of boulevards, fast food,
And I am finished with the toll of the free

And dispensable. I miss my music,
My twilight and unlocking, and the past,

Where she will repeat "I am still singing.
The sky is ours. Wreck yourself here and stay."