Only the oak and the beech hang onto their leaves
at the end, the oak leaves bruised the color of those
insurgent boys Iraqi policemen captured
purpling their eyes and cheekbones before
lining them up to testify to the Americans
that, no, no, they had not been beaten. . . .
The beech leaves dry to brown, a palette of cinnamon.
They curl undefended, they have no stake in the outcome.
Art redeems us from time, it has been written.
Meanwhile we’ve exported stress positions, shackles,
dog attacks, sleep deprivation, waterboarding.
To rend: to tear (one’s garments or hair)
in anguish or rage. To render: to give what is due
or owed. The Pope’s message
this Sunday is the spiritual value of suffering.
Extraordinary how the sun come up
with its rendition of daybreak,
staining the sky with indifference.
from Still to Mow, W.W. Norton, 2007
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