It’s like they believe in
what they know won't
exist,
filled like plastic
with gas so light
it makes them smile.
What they take to be true
no more than a cartoon
drawn on a nondescript wall.
That’s what visitors do,
find in every tchotchke
at the bazaar
some valence of meaning,
else they miss the place
entire.
What they must wear
as a scar to prove
they belong!
The yesses grow
from passive whispers
to paling roars
as no’s grown
inside the heat
tumble against them in circles
turning like a whirlwind
of ever-veering, ever-
contending spin.
Something brings the question
of their purpose
to a boil.
They hear in every platitude
words they used
and injustice in
the indifference
that comes of not being heard.
Only an orphaned soul
can look until it sees
what it wishes to be,
to take that much in,
just to will away the wisp
that contradicts.
And all to want,
sincerely want,
the other to be right,
to shake off the haze
of unshared beliefs,
and not be belied
by the mind
and its savory
tongue,
so they can look once again
on the blood-drenched streets
and see in it only beauty.
And I am referring,
of course, to me.