ARARAT FROM THE FLOOD

I

Now the man in the ash-covered coat

turns again our way, still crowing fire

& now something hovers over the still ashes—

it comes for the dove, for the sparrow

it comes amid the green airburst of spring

while sparrows wheel above the feeder

and in Iraq the few, the proud, are vandalizing Ur,

birthplace of Abraham, poetry, the wheel

as it comes, earnest doves in the streets of our cities

block traffic for a few crumbs of peace

with their block-letter signs and their wonder,

their chants and their heartbreaking satyagraha

meanwhile, the branches, terrible with crows,

are breaking, chance bombs explode indifferently

indifferent, too, the buildings as they crumble,

the pictures aflame on the walls, the birds

II

Now begins the sohbet between pulverized stone

and flesh, obscene terror and indecent empire

“lift the stone and you will find me” is what

the fliers of the missing say and say

“I have been away from my own soul,”

said Moulana Rumi, that rapt flyer, his words

still wrapped in the spring winds that arrive

masterfully one morning, vivant and scented

observe this scene: there are hidden symbols

and depleted morals everywhere we turn—

in the sparrows last seen in the lilac’s bare branches,

the doves amid the shit and seed beneath the feeder

it is more than we can bear: Paula on CNN,

Black Hawks and Kalashnikovs, Saddam and Bush

today the bushes remain loud with birds:

what must happen to make us change our lives?