After the acquittal of the police shooting of Philando Castile
The problem is, lately, I am the elliptical
leaves of a birch—not even the whole organism, just
the top swaying above a clock tower. The sky
has some clouds. The sky has some clouds—
a statement so vague no one
could convict it. Another trial ending in wind. Another trial
in which the jurors couldn’t be certain,
though they saw what we all saw—
his death, live-streamed,
a four-year-old witness
in the backseat. It’s spring. The problem is, lately,
I’ve been rootless.
Silence rolls around
inside me, a smooth stone
on my tongue. Something
is gnawing away the particulars of things, licking the world
clean of color—
even that birch, the hard grooves
of its skin swirling around odd notches, growing
until it reached beyond
the clock tower, meant as a symbol
of order, how humans divide their time—
Never mind.
Talking these days is like sifting
through a pile of mulch.
I remember talking before—how I strove
for greenness, precision, a certain
grace in form, but who
was I speaking to,
what was I saying?
Something about time. A tower.
A tree with a murder
of crows in its branches. A mistrial
of clouds. An acquittal
of nonsense. A jury
with splinters in its teeth.