Psalm Two

a country you carry in your pocket airport to airport, a country that exists for you in a remembered fragrance, an expired stamp, now the seal of blood embossed upon someone's sunstruck pavement. Who owns this property? Who owns the right to no way out but a busted window a hundred flights up? Who owns the key to Heaven's Gate? Did it open? I open the newspaper, my computer, an account, and need to account for all the terror in the world, in crossing the street with my child this morning, our Indian heads and Palestinian shrouds. With what do we pay? For what attention? I want to draw its shape "scattered in files and surprises.... flying on shrapnel and bird's wings.... trapped between the dagger and the wind. I want to draw your shape to find my shape in yours...." And what if the source of death is not the dagger or the lie? But both. Buried deep in the human rubble. Closer to God than thee.