White-Binder Poems  

The region is a row of unassimilated faces
flying past at near the speed of light.

In the region ghosts mingle with the lazy dogs;
buildings are carved from the bones of the dead.

The ocean, a fierce friend, has a voice the poet knows.
It carries the promise of new beginnings;

madness scours the sky of a national loneliness.

In the region are the objects: Bridges: Islands:
Railroad and Freeway

They are kept in a box in a children's park
where the statues smell like dogs and old sailors
make dinner over fires of pine and leather jackets.

"The consequence of our hatred has been born out."

A kind of barbarism dies away in the comfort of old empires;
objects are folded and embedded in blank windows.