When the sun drops

in wait and the shop doors

are locked, fleshy and irreverent

the dead flood the streets

and in their wake

any misconception

that this generation

hasn’t had a defining moment

is consumed. They jostle

for position, tattered flags

catching and pirouetting in moonlight.

Arms snag on mailboxes

gates trap heroes’ toes.

The ceremony proceeds for those

who know where to look

and the sibilant call grows

but, still, a mother can’t cry too loud

for fear of waking the president.

The eyes’ backlights

will burn out by dawn

the chaos will slow—myriad,

minute tufts of grass and pebbles

will sink back into place.

The best time to be okay with choices

is before the dawn breaks, so

America, turn your fear to steel.

They found a dinosaur heart

in South Dakota once, perfectly

preserved, still held in the

protective curves of its ribcage.

I don’t know much about hearts

outside of words like aorta

and by-pass, chambers and

ventricles. I know that some

men have plastic hearts, some

have baboon hearts, and some

rare men barely have hearts

at all. But I think that I

know my own heart and hope

that when they crack the sternum

to unearth it, the black spots

of hatred and weakness are

small and few, hope the

whoosh of air that escapes

sounds not unlike her name,

hope there is still an errant

pulse or two to beat out in

some odd jazz time, hope that

when its weighed on that clinical

scale, its measured by more than

just ounces and pounds.