Monday, August 11, 2014

Hands, Rodin, Hands

Where were the armies,
surprised by gases in the thickness
of the forest in the glory of the morning?
The corners are packed with
quoters of religion, the facts
of which are subject to suspicion

Delightful Wonderworker you
surprised us with water
refreshed us with Spring, all year long
The ladies flowed out
of your dirty postcards
and took their places
in the pocket of dawn

On occasion I notice
fractions of infirmity
come to visit and never leave
a lame dog melancholy
repeating the same phrases
the same names of the newly gone
What remorse and impatience don’t
take from our faces
the texture of suicide and of grains of
thanksgiving will form the
sediment of experience.

I assumed you were executed
you widower you
addresser of deeds
the Haggadah of the heart
dusty and cruddy
with passages of purchase
with the disrespect of god

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