The Axis Turns

the pomegranate shone,
a crimson poem
which dangled
in the dust
outside Tehran in winter,

songs of Hafiz pulled the prayerful
down where only the heart can see,

small children called to one another
in the cool clear air of day,
shouted out with glee to friends
in Farsi along Esfahan’s
blue broad river

while across the deepest sea
the certified axis of evil
rotated on its spit,
sneered and chuckled
in tongues of fear
in twisted Texan vernacular,
smelled the taint and grief of oily lies
like sticky shards of broken talk
painted primitive black and white,
disgusting in its dirt
clogged lips
a slithering uncoiled
rattlesnake lost and starving
for a target, alone without prey,

the end of saber rattling
this ancient bluff
of huff and hubris,
he doffs his store
bought hat,
broods towards
one sober plodding
thought,
who or what if any
is eternally saved?

the crisp absurdity
of pungent sage ablaze

he is almost ready
in this torrid heat
for the shallow
cowboy’s grave.