by J. Mark Smith

Selective deafness; delicious sleep;
some stoniness regarding blood-splashed city walls.
Not giving a damn about other people’s children —
true, true, partially true.

Erogenous as our flushed and dilating parts,
indifference is excitingly cool:
has not the least care
but drawing up nectarine buildings.

Surprise! Baby clabber stiffens your sleeve.
There’s been a hostage-taking,
and someone has acceded
(a breathtaking cave-in) to all demands.

To injustice as well, now you’re
ensphered. For while the Achaeans coolly
dispatch Hector’s bawling sons,
a violence of love rises in you

to shield this one – him, only –
from the vast indifference of the world,
its, ah, yes, hard-heartedness.
Into such iron equilibrations, a sleeper first curls.