Friday, March 18, 2005

Make Your Mother Sigh

Number 12. “At twelve o'clock a meeting round the table / For a séance in the dark:” Now the narrative returns to its cinematography. Not in anapest though. But what is the modus operandi of the spirit? Who are we to it on a close encounter? If as Thoreau says there is an infinite mind, imagine its take on our limited one. We’re at least three degrees of separation from eternity.
scaring the daylight from my mother’s eyes.
Samara looked at me as if I were
a silhouette of some slight waterspout
effusive still after the temperature
had plummeted below the freezing point,
some living afterthought she could anoint
Complete poem to date here.

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