To Be an Expatriate

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.

Copyright 1995 John Brocato