Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

When going mad, again, you’ll put on red,
carry a folding knife, bleed unawares.

The broom will break as you will find your wit.
Flies will fly; you will catch them.


                                                     But you won’t
choose speech and would rather salt

the earth, pull down the beams upon the heads
of those who never risk a miss, but would


take up arms for the defense of Greece and die
defending nothing.

                            The rough notation
of meat upon bone


produces mixed results you cannot bear:
galvanic charge, crazed skies, and manic air.