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.