Concordencia

O good shepherd magic me —
on the train on the other side
of the world everybody is reading
the news in pictures
I do understand, on the back of papers
a young man standing naked covering
modestly, although because it is today
he takes the pictures
himself and modesty
is staged. There is no snake. Breakneck pink
in the pastures screams at me. And so, poem, it seems
nothing has changed. A big show about death
glimpsed at speeds. How long until knowledge
crawls back out of its snakehole? Today?
Tomorrow? There has never been
a single frame of this picture
not shot by the sun. Invisible green
trees chatter me — the news
is a one-legged heron, a foxhole
filled by need. I am left unattached
O good magic
and all my new scars, I will never regret
calling your name out every page in the dark