Burma, Before the Name Change

This morning it’s
small birds in the grating,
fluttering where you were

before you went.  Along the street,
a stream of dark water
slowly closing itself off––

uneasy cover, a grey
layer of what no one wants to
hold onto, falling
from five floors up.

It drains and collects–
not what might think–
rain, or relief;

just the aftermath of some people on earth
who've been herded here forever.

Burmese Elegy

The skyline seems sculpted
from tossed-off things, a scrapped
collection with no spring wall of
leafy greens
for protection.
Winter light
continually fractures.
Ragged branches claw at nothing without moving.

In Rangoon I saw
a black snake longer than I am
slide across the side street where I lived
and sink back into the dark stream
that ran between the houses.
The kids ask me all kinds
of unforeseeable questions:
Do you like John Denver?

You got beat when you were little?
I have to say yes,
not just because it’s all true,
but for the fact that
if you say no it’s the end of any kind
of magical thinking
for everyone,
all over.