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• Artiste: Natural Snow Buildings
• Titre: Whose Eyes are Flowers
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The disasters numb within us, caught in the chest, rolling in the brain like pebbles The feeling resembles lumps of raw dough, weighing down a child's stomach on baking day Or Rilke said it, "My heart: Could I say of it, it overflows with bitterness But no, as though its contents were simply balled into formless lumps, thus do I carry it about" The same war continues We have breathed the grits of it in all our lives Our lungs are pocked with it, the mucous membrane of our dreams coated with it The imagination filmed over with the gray filth of it The knowledge that humankind; delicate man Whose flesh responds to a caress, whose eyes are flowers that perceive the stars Whose music excels the music of birds, whose laughter matches the laughter of dogs Whose understanding manifests designs fairer than the spider's most intricate web Still turns without surprise, with mere regret To the scheduled breaking open of breasts whose milk runs out over the entrails of still-alive babies Transformation of witnessing eyes to pulp-fragments Implosion of skinned penises into carcass-gulleys We are the humans, men who can make; Whose language imagines mercy, lovingkindness Believed one another, mirrored forms of a God we felt as good Who do these acts, who convince ourselves it is necessary These acts are done to our own flesh Burned human flesh is smelling in Vietnam as I write Yes, this is the knowledge that jostles for space in our bodies along with all we go on knowing of joy, of love Our nerve filaments twitch with its presence day and night Nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying Nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have