Line Drawing

Dust shimmers on planes of light,

lights the shape of my bones,

a shape my eyes retain

after day has disintegrated

on the spur of evening.

How tired I've become of drawing lines,

seeking signs in every corner

of firestorms and napalm tigers.

I resolve to draw only one leaf

for each twig, though it leaves the tree exposed,

and birds to build nests in other places,

how pretty the weave of water and foliage.

There are four riders:

a rider on a flesh horse,

and a rider of death,

there's war and famine,

and here, the coming apart begins,

with a sword to separate.

Here is the heart of my tiger

with eyes of sparks

and detonation on his tongue.

Here are his teeth in the tents of strangers.

I seek sanctuary in the obscurity of metaphor.