Below the Walls
All day I dream about exotic catapults
My cousin told me about the trebuchet.
It’s a French catapult, I guess,
With a rope that whips and snaps
Like a knife breaking.
I dream that I will place
Everything in its leathery nest,
Look for a moment into the hills,
And pull the handle.
Sometimes, I’ll watch my brother’s
Conquered old sedan
As it soars into the dirt.
I watch my books flutter
Like panicking birds.
Most precious of all
Are those things which restrained us
Within a realm of fragility.
Glassware, plates, old clocks,
Expensive watches, computers.
As they fly I feel a pang
Of addiction releasing,
Followed by an unsatisfactory crunch.