14

By Chad Bauer

14. This is my flood:

Our whales come up for air. They are rising from arctic waters and stampede the glaciers into the sun.

They are lightness here. Earth shows her other side, black storm oasis, moon swinging through her wide eclipse.

We sit in thrones:

Streets tainted of (sur)reality while a red balloon floats in mid-intersection brushing chrome on passing cars, slowing traffic.

She was called Francesca, mother of the last century, leader of children and men alike, agent of wonder.

Of Catholic villages:

Bonfire throws its warmth and glow to passersby, who absorb them as wisdom and peace of Danish lands.

Collapsing gold mines slip out quietly with a rush, Aztec ruins once bowed to, now trainyards where we board twohundredton locomotives.

Swept away by war:

Numbed blank pale-skinned transparents uttering horrors to themselves in confusion. Swallow the doubts, fool.

Indulge yourself in useless pursuits, plight of the orphan, nevermore the fruitless brooks of reddened water.

Duæ quia unum:

14 faces at the Cresco tragedy, all reflections. We heard the unspoken rumors that night; their chatterings amongst us.

Our bodies are on display in ancient forums; duæ quia unum and a circus. Futurus ad nunc ad præter. End to beginning.

We:

Concesso in pause, remorse unhanded... kept in folded hands until dark skies ask of it to plead in our defense.

My feather is your burden; our weakness - their sacrificial reverie. What will become of us? We must lift ourselves one last time. In grace. In patience.

In spirit.

14 will ask for remorse.

04/12/2004

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