New Poetry
What hurried out of the old woes
Anatolia
Into, it's only a new broadcast
With repetition of landscape
And broken versions of city names?
The radio is off ... The times and all the silence:
I cannot recite the sound of my time.
The fool can mix news items--
I am not tired and I am not weary.
I am not sufficiently angry.
If it makes a difference to the calendar
And Kennedy's death coming
... Said in my memory... Louder than...
Say this: the Dr. Says--
The scalpel for mind,
Me, my hip, the base of my skull...
Insert: we could hardly make this up, and
On the way to the proxy
The vote was lost, the sound was lost.
The loss was what we found
Waiting for the old lines to limp by.
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