How to Read a Poem at Occupy Wall Street

Every poem begins just before
9:00 A.M. and never ends, or the other
way around, reaching toward us
from a place we never knew, stopped
dead at our feet here and now, locked
in the day. The hardest part

is seeing where the dark began
or begins to end. All those men,
long or fetal, dropping from
the sky. All those ashen women
running in the street. Each human
vowel burned, burning, or quiet,

the sun blazing through every line
and tower. No one knows, really,
where light or evil comes from.
The moon knocks at smoke like an eye
behind the door, an eye trying
to get in. All night, tapping

grows weaker in the direction
of caesura, or the soft turn
of the sonnet’s ninth line, the
poem that will make us love again.
It’s a sound we might have heard once,
less than a heartbeat, a leap

as in the great haiku from hope,
or the end of hope, to knowing.

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