Not the face, the human face,
floating in its crippled spoon;
not the needle where it drinks
night after night; neither the watch,
the blood, nor the gold in hock,
the world liquefied to small bills
passed under the broker's jail;
no little crime of sweat that breaks
the child's lockbox of the body;
not the courage of the dour road
where it blisters into rough stone;
or the craze of the eye regarding
itself, the obsidian crystal;
not the mockery of the beast lung
bursting through its two blue doors;
or the shriek of birds glorified
with fear; not the pitch, the rock,
the ship of deaf sailors save one
lashed to his mast; not even the gash
of stars, the song, we are told,
too sweet to bear; but something
more, always more, the moon
in the wave, the animal, they say,
running in the Siren's veins,
the squall in the breach that calls
him out, mast or no mast, that grips
the buried shield of the sternum
as if it were the world's shield,
as if the heart dropped its massive
rope to hear, there, drowned in fog,
the sudden distance of its name.
By bruce bond; Sinjar Diarist; Devil's Advocates; The surest way to mapIraq's ethnic and sectarian fault lines is by how quickly a U.S.helicopter flies over them. Choppers race over Sunni areas, nearlysi