Young men wrap themselves in flags,
and suicide on sunny days
in outdoor cafes
spreading pink mist
over soup de jour.
But
arching jasmine stars
explode white
perfumed hope over blue-stone walls
leading possibility by the hand
re-attaching torn limbs,
excavating coffins
from muddy graves,
allowing tears to defy gravity
run back up cheeks
and return to weeping eyes,
while candles unburn
returning the wax to bees,
– in fact
putting the whole fucking world on rewind –
then creeping softly from the room
and closing the door behind.
