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Sunday, April 9, 2017

India Street

It’s wonderful to admire oneself
with complete candor. —Frank O’Hara

Here I am, hardly a picture of anything—       When
I enter the sun     I understand that one must sing—
Evidence    brutally    elsewhere,         an improvised
doctrine—Palm    Sunday,    responsibilities claimed
for the bombs I had     no idea one carried       actual
fronds from    church, they    bounce in arms    pink
cheeks  a pink like      red on rubble— So this is how
we wake each day,            the feuilleton of buzz a far
off ping— A bomber barged        and detonated near  
the altar— I remember being told once               by a
colleague that politics were inherently     part of the
work of all poems and thinking        Is it that easy to
be present, is language a creature able to bend both
directions— I told R         who chuckled out  bullshit
a satisfying sound     alliance always satisfying— Hi
gorgeous barista, we smile in exchanges         I hold
your hand    let my own   fall    a pool of warm light
in the midst    of distant   wreckage— Over a dozen
expanding over language   over lay waste and  what
am I to do  but view my neighborhood’s     trinkets,
these pretty idiosyncrasies rattling patina’d import
and old comic books featuring the first appearance
of Rogue, Rogue who           I idolized as a child for
absorbing the violations of her enemies         I who
wanted to become my enemies      more than    any
thing else in the world—     What makes us    reach
towers of want when world shutters     it shutters—

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