Driven perpindicularly through with compressed woods, around
which the lilac wound flutters like its blanched bloom, the history
of this arm strikes us with self-pity, each fiber of its staggering
drop-dance puts us on the floor where we have previously mated
writhing maternal injuries now, how we see an expiration
of our partially own unwilling mutiny upbraid dense memory.
The pursuant downslaught calls upon our most daring reserve
of sublimity in the rainy hour, to chariot this misery affluence
into the right admixture: we call out three or four names,
strike the remaining lantern to fade-spot our mystery
and push the clutch through the floor.  Up, in, the sage
complex placidity radiates throughout the building,
Deliver me to a new ethic, I wish the controlled
sweep through these desolate neighborhoods to shine up
the real heroine's dodging face, furred and pinched like a bat
and striped with the splinters of pulp-board slatted into the eyes
of the cyclone perimetry.  With soddish time-cracker bigotry
raking dismay wires for praise in the afternoon flats,
we forget how danger
sweeps over the blasted plains and grain floors.	

Andrea Brady Index
The East Village Poetry Web
Andrea Brady