I never should have learned any language,
that great poet
wrote once,
but I
wanted to learn as many as I could, as much as I could
so innocent, so naive, so vulnerable

ohh le an der
a red ohh le an der
read:
oleander,
blazing in the strangest of shapes
the tree itself pursuing the people, lumbering toward the river

it crossed the hypocenter
with barefoot words
after the war     the first to bloom was
the red
red oleander
stamping the earth with the grammar of flowers

the tongue of the oleander is charred black     dangling
the bottoms of its feet are raw
a frantic escape
as the crowds keep coming from behind keep coming

between words and things     between meanings and feelings
a river like old bandages runs
gimme water, wouldja, ohh, gimme water, wouldja

on the water’s surface a surfeit of
black
black oleander
pure, immolated     oleander

with a scorched tongue     today again I meander
in the discourse of flowers
a post-catastrophe anastrophe, criticized for being though I am