BOUND AND BUSTY
AND WIDE AWAKE TOO
(I am watching my own murder?)
These are the things we inhabit, these days and
These are the things we inhabit, these days and
moments in another mirror : the fleeting sky and all
its things, the waning of a fitful moon always changing,
the glimmer'd silhouette of some skyward object
flitting by us. Each with a story - and, apparently,
always someone to tell it. This gift of gab, not nice
at all, fits nothing. Lies and distribution, all the time.
-
Five marauders creep the subway platform. I watch
like an undercover cop. My own murder here? Who
are they and from where have they come? I don't
believe there's a brain between them, except the
seethe of ideology twice told. Up above me, I know
the land is waiting : that old New Hampshire
village-scape, the town square, and the
bandstand where the brass bands
like to play.
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