On violence

And I think there is a way
we lose grip on the slippery slope
of violence;
we thread the eye of the smallest needle,
plunge the point into our palms
say: see, this is pain,
this error of veins and pulses.
This is the way our houses burn down;
this is the ash falling snow-form
on the lawns of all our neighbors
while they pull their curtains tighter
with ice-white knuckles;
this is the tangerine glow
of engulfment;
this is the darkness of blood on cement.
Our pins could never spill so much 
from us and our clutched pearls.
This is the eye of a needle,
a space so small 
breath does not pass through,
and we, like moons, orbit around this place,
never turning our face to the sun.
This is the ember
that settles in our hands, 
smoking hell-sent bud,
like a seed if seeds grew death,
like a morning if dawning stars could die,
like an ocean wave as it seals off the sky
from the eyes of the landlocked man.