Dawn Sueoka: Untitled

Spring '11 TOC

In this poem there are no sounds, only
signs: thumb mouth eye
the silence of a winter afternoon.
In quasi darkness the houseplants gape.
The many-handled universe
seems to wobble
in the total violence of the poem.
Something tilts—the room or the page?
yet the cardinal bonds remain: jeans, cups, fragile human objects—
and through the window, to which
the last beetle clings, calamine
earth calamine sky.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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