Yellow Yo-Yo
Pull the stars from their
dead sockets. Not even the least
flicker stays fixed. For every X
on the map marks the burial
site of someone who
lingered too long—this is no
signature. Catch quickly
what stains and folds have not rubbed
out: location is a trap.
What use in a hobby-horse that won’t
move? And if it does, a delight
always to jerk back to the place you
wouldn’t leave, now dizzy because
the circus is just the same.
Every telephone
pole or grandfather tree offers
another hold for the noose. Some
limbs deserve to be severed.
You cannot stand underneath
forever watching sluggish
constellations repeat.
No destination. Don’t ever sign it.
For like a yellow yo-yo the sun
dangles from your hand.
Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology, 2011.