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Friday, April 14, 2017


This morning I read a very good poem
about bombs, sloshing drunk I quote

Celan last night, I sing Dust in the Wind,
The Word for World Is Forest flashes over.

and over in me. I won’t outgrow any

of this, I will only lose more as I age, of
course, because to grow suggests we do

and when we say nonnuclear we demand
you to see the word clearly. The word for

world is plumes. A satellite shot presents
violence as only a color, not the deafening
rings. A green gold. Electrum by the Ancient

Greeks. In a notebook I scribble antiquated
horologist, fire gilding, escapement. Such

reliance on time, not time itself but a unit
to describe it. I wake up with new bruises,
easier bruises. I am not inconsolable. Bomb,

as in aubade, if bomb from Greek means
a deep and hollow sound, if aubade is dawn

is white song. What right beyond this
hollow sound do I to go on. Who would

believe the trembling wolf and not the
blood lining his opened mouth?

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