No Paradise outside the Window

He is busy with his scattered papers.
The muzzle of the old pistol
is looking at him in provocation.
Poetry is the noblest thing in language,
and the whiteness of the papers is death.
They may knock his door.
The distance between him and the pistol
is penetrated by time.
Did I leave it loaded?
The barrel may be rusted.
The poem is a butterfly's wing,
adjectives burden it
and a lack of verbs deconstructs it.
The pistol is a lying monster.
If they come…shall I leave the paper?
Or will I ambush them from behind the window,
then open the door
and hold the poem up to their faces?
My fingers become pens,
their ink pours
onto the white
The words are sparrows
flying over paper to perch on the handle of the pistol.
The pistol is still
raving, motivated.
Death is a hair's breadth or less.
What will the wind say to the window?
They may come down...
Or...go away...
Or…
The shame is when Hamlet eats his hands,
and the image here is unfinished,
no fingers left to gather on the handle of the pistol,
no desire to dance with hesitation,
so agitation spreads across the paper,
and bullets are teased by
crowds and rust.
When they come or land
Shall I sit…
or ready my soul?
The letters are glass injuring splinters.
I wish sensed already
that the enemies are not a fantasy—
The distance is narrowing
when the poem seems to drink its ink
from the water in his hands.
My paradise is here, not outside the window.
A sweet sleepiness flows over things,
their voices insist they are present while they are absent.
How do I know that the trigger has two deadlocks,
that time between us is just an invention to the last step?
I ask heroism to be late,
until the live coal of the poem is extinguished.
Then I will return to mock Hamlet’s long sword.
Why does this night put on two horns?
Why does the image of death reflect on
the world, the labyrinth?
The pistol is a gypsy with teeth of fire
waiting for celebration music.
What obsessions are flourishing
under the cloak of the impossible?
Why do words disappoint their pleasure's terms?
Why do words alone
carry the gamble?
Why are our intersections
dependent on mad roads?
The sky is a night dropped
onto my world.
I wish they already knew
that I am not a bystander,
and if they come,
and their pistols laugh,
that they would pass my blood as if it were dust.