Rings

Entrance.
There is silence in the concentric circles of tree
stumps. No leaves rustling, no branches creaking.
The light colored rings indicate a spring season.
The dark colored rings, the absence of spring.
At the center, a dark spot marks the day
the seed was buried. It mirrors a planet.

Journey.
There is movement in the thin ocean layer
of rocks. A floating desert carousel chiseled in air.
The light colored rings are the bedrock grave
of a companion moon. The dark colored rings,
the absence of moon. In the center, a mass that invented
itself when the universe formed. It mirrors a ghost.

Exit.
Fluid statue. Ripple. No fingers moving, no legs walking.
The light colored rings in the slice of a ghost
mark times it was loved as flesh.
There are dark rings for every time it was yelled at,
laughed at, cheated, beaten, tortured, or raped.
There is no center. Only the green scent of seedpods.

Five twists and a black hole.

There will not be a Dr. King.
His re-incarnation was pronounced dead at
an Atlanta hospital, the victim of a gun shot.

There will not be a next Krishna.
He was one of eight killed by an explosion
at a Indian house near the Pakistani border.

There will not a 15th Dalai Lama.
The small child was shot dead by
Chinese troops while fleeing Tibet.

There will be no second coming,
The boy was killed by a car bomb while
walking to school in Bethlehem.

There will not be another white Rhino.
Poachers shot the last two,
killing one and wounding the other.

…and you?...Where the fuck were you?
Laying in bed watching the news?
The globe turns its face and looks away.

DQ 6/12/07