Vol. 7

Reading the American Image


The truth is,
I don’t care
about the way
the river
rinses wide
the clay fault
edges. There is
light, a crumpled
tremor. Sun-nerves
cracking pulse
and line drifts
through all
touched things.

It could never
have been about
the eye, that I,
but imagine
if it were:
at our best,
the town
gone under.
The planet shown
in free-fall
with signs
of arterial
decay. The creeks

now above
our heads—
the Greeks,
from polished wood.
Space just another word
for arrhythmia,
though St. Augustine
is too polite
to say it. Just asks,
“What is time?”
as morning
measures earth
in insect shadow.
As if we could be selfish
in the face
of all that memory.
Don’t forget:
there is still the matter
of this dying animal
to perform.

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