Louis Gallo

Wall

. . . Wierds broke it.
– The Ruin

Let’s make that weirds. Must always
translate into a current vernacular
or else lose the flavor, texture, the onion.
Wall, which wall? Stone, outdated,
cumbersome, residual . . . now it’s
barriers of the mind we erect,
the nimble, wet mind,
a buoy with glossy red stripes,
that nobody sees, not even the pelicans.
And yet the weirds chip away
with chisel and pickax, each
crumbly chunk a spoil of war,
the triumph of still another wall
against which we all stand,
blindfolded, arms spread wide,
pleading forgiveness because
we forgot to buckle up or lift
the lid or let the word Eskimo
slip from our oily lips or
laughed at the wrong joke
or admired a woman’s breasts
or sneaked in a quick drag
in the smoke-free chapel. . .
This new wall does not span China,
does not obstruct invaders;
we merely dissolve into it
and disappear.

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