War  M. Alan Cox



Nature doesn't come in sharp

angles. Architecture

mounts an assault—juts

into the Strait

of San Juan de Fuca. Points

itself toward Asia: negates all traces


in my mind of the sloped, curving

rooflines I associate with Japan: a wave

like stone worn

by sand. The curve of a breast

against a black curtain.


America's this house. Not

because we're especially unattractive—

we just always ruin

everyone's view. Black glass


catches sun

coming off Cedars—

muddles the color into something

besides green.


In the name of accuracy

substitute in opposition to for besides—


besides seems like a pair

of lovers curled

into a ball, not drowned bodies

strangling each other.