power
the middle-aged men
consumed by their taste for power
suck the color out of each scene
each scarlet hibiscus = antivenom
undoing the drain of girls and beer
meanwhile I watch the smooth pewter waves
trying to go flat as glass
straining to tell them something
those lost boys don’t yet know
the power of submission
of turning their bodies
to catch the divine breath
that still would blow them toward
the Happy Isles
or the relief of unclenching their fists
from the executioner’s staff
and refusing to torture
one more soul
