The glass eyes of Chartres shine blue
with the order of ancient faith.
Now the blue light of television
flickers from apartment windows
as gun barrels ransom the news.
Even innocents kill
because a demon lover
is better than none at all,
to wear incendiary colors
better than invisible.
Late at night my veins run with words.
I think of their clotted freeways
and the interchanges of arteries.
It is hard to believe
there is blood in the heart
and not much else.
There are 27 poems in the first section of Sine Wave, so we have passed the mid point of the depressive section, and now depression turns outward to focus on the world. Still the diseased mind makes a selection error in focusing on the dark side, as in the gangs alluded to above. There is also a mourning for a nobler past, for a medieval world view, for anything that holds together, unlike the modern fractionalization into the whining fractals of special interests.
This is certainly not the best poem in the collection, but I'm proud of the last stanza as a raw expression of pessismism.