by Scott Keeney
1
Over the synagogue
at the end of the road
crows shatter the sky
like small arms fire—
safety is not enough.
2
The generosities of film—
capturing it all in
theory—against
the savagery of actual
footage. Dire, cinematic age.
3
brief endurance
of what
makes
flags whip
ripple or tear
4
The dead arrive on flatbeds
or else disappear around corners—
dust clouds in the streets—
would it be better if
we could eat them?
5
To arrive meaning to leave,
meaning continue, not end,
not unlike what happens
when you fall on your ass
at the Miss Universe pageant.
6
I don't know which to prefer:
the black bird that is oil
at $100 per barrel
or the simple, muscle
mathematics of the surge.
7
The tabernacle at the end of the road
used to be a synagogue,
and before that a pre-school,
and before that a church,
and before that some woods.
8
The moon rises predictably
suddenly—like the stock market—
same as it goes down.
The crows land on treetops
like proud little flags.
Scott Keeney writes from Connecticut. His poems have appeared most recently in Court Green and The Hay(na)ku Anthology, Volume II (Meritage Press).
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