To Be an Expatriate

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The flat path never slopes
The bullet never lopes
Instead
The boughs hang heavier
Beaten by wet weather
Oh no

Can't say the lines are drawn again
When we know they have always been

No shadow undulates
Wheat swatches stand and wait
Until
Heart taken tenfold blow
No shattering although
It will

No haven culled from heaven's pate
No humbled arms to consecrate

These vapors pining north
Begun as one gone forth
Gone forth
Dissipate what is left
The last days shall be cleft
Bereft

And how those graces beckon so
But bone-dry boats will not be rowed

The flat path never slopes
The bullet never lopes

© 1995 John Brocato​