Rome
A poem by Ish Ibrahim.
I hope tomorrow’s wave rebirths me
The thought of another day is often too much
I hope I’ll land on the sand
washed pink and born again
With all of it, the ten-thousand things
undone
Still. Moments that follow must leave their marks
So we paint time with violins and set our waste ablaze on restless streets
These and many things unknown are time’s fruits.
In the night we leave ourselves.
“tomorrow” and “paradise” mean the possibility of waking as another
And washing their yellow gunk dreams out of our eyes over the white sink
Pens have never beheaded kings and this is how I know my cowardice
I hope it no longer will be explained in terms of substance colliding smashing condensed chance trickle crashing cacophony all within a nothing expanding into-
expanding into what
We know not yet what.
expansion and gravity are locked in battle.
The sea meets the clouds where the world may end
and under it is darkness waiting to envelop us
The second hand ticks singing out its brush strokes
This has lasted a long time
our daughters in a world with no ice
on the 6 train their density is their intimacy
The fool’s wisdom: ashes makes fertile soil
hemlock, nightshade, and milkweed escape him
while violins paint the time we set wastes ablaze in reminder that
we are and
it is and
we are in it
when it’s finished
with a head ringing with wine
we’ll lay down you and I
a single thought might still appear
audible apart from it all reminding you
all heroes are killed and the world has yet to be saved
You hope tomorrow’s wave rebirths you
