What was it I was hungry about. Hunger, it is one Of the several contraptions I can turn on the off-button to at will. Yes, yes, of course it is an "Art." Of course I will not be here Long, not the way the percentages are going now. He might have been Half-beautiful in a certain optic nerve Of light, but legible only at particular Less snowy distances. I was fixed on The poplar and the dread. The night was lung-colored And livid still—he would have my way With me. In this district of late Last light, indicated by the hour of The beauty of his neck, his face Arabian in contour Like a Percheron grazing in his dome of grass, If there is a god, he is not done Yet, as if continuing to manhandle the still lives of The confederate dead this far north, this time of year, each Just a ghostly reason now. There are reasons: One, Soon the wind will blow Pentecostal with the power of group prayer. Two: the right to bear arms. Three: you did not find my empathy Supernatural, at the very least. —Have you any ideas that are new? I was fixed on the scythe and the harlequin, on the priggish Butcher as he cuts the tender loin and When I saw this spectacle, I wanted to live for a moment for A moment. However inelegant it was, It was what it might have been to be alive, but tenderly. One thing. One thing. One thing: Tell me there is A meadow, afterward.
Copyright © 2011 by Lucie Brock-Broido. Used with permission of the author.