Buttons
The Polish aristocrat,
the poet with paper epaulets.
Arguing legitimacy like nationhood
roleplaying,
with a piece of eternity stuck in the throat.
And the heart returns to familiar territory
a massacred people, few survivors
few old enough to remember
even fewer facts.
Too many blood feuds.
Too many emotions running for the presidency.
Tempted to misbehave
tempted to quote Heinrich Heine and call it a day.
To reach for wishbones with mittens,
to hang on to eternity with a colourless thread.
A confession dragging itself to the stand.
A strategy that will defeat itself at the poll.
An old tiny canister of too many buttons
conspired to fasten our nakedness,
spools of silver lining unravelling the universe
star by ubiquitous star.