Today's poem is by Dean Young

Zero Hour

Like when you realize sunsets really are
out to kill you, it's better the libretto's
in a language you don't understand until
you're older and damaged. That's when
you realize everyone's damaged and the absurdity
of the emotional response being way out
of proportion to its cause is precisely
the opera's point. The car won't start,
the stain won't budge, the dream can't be
recalled. It's hard for a soul to pull itself
away from flesh. It's warm in there, glowing
and a little sticky. The houses are floating,
the river is glass and a ballet slipper
is spotted with blood. Fire draws red triangles
on a wall painted to resemble a waterfall.
Probably the after-party began long ago.
We served ourselves from huge bowls
and threw back shots of fire. Nothing
came out of the night that hadn't before.
Or wouldn't again.

Copyright © 2012 Dean Young All rights reserved
from Bender
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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