POEM: UNTITLED

There are still songs
and music to be found
as tectonic plates
press below Tibet
and the monks...
"Om."

There are still songs
demanding to be sung.

I hear them roll over
the fields of barley.
Where the death camps
burned our flesh.

They can be heard
in the metropolis:
In the subway
In the broken shells
found along the beach.
In revivalist's tents.
In the still traffic.

In the sun barely
getting through the
thick haze above.

China's desert
ruptures, grows and
like an angel of death
it blankets our city.