Jules Gibbs

The street below is a stage of awninged shops

you are seven small volcanoes

maze of wrought iron, recess, treachery of fire escapes

an earthquake to excite still water —

give it to me— your ineffable song

put it in my mouth; ignite the fuse

sirens wail in lamentation over gray rooftops

of no protection, no protection

in false rooms where we exchange reckless gifts

everything awaits release, departure, disarray, ruse

not ours to give: hunk of earth, wedge of sky

sing of the long, winding moan that trails us everywhere

because you listen for the sea in me, I swell with all I am not —

arc of this imperfect thought

poured out lifetime of slow-gathered earth

sing of a flawed desire to explode