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1 Poem by Dylan Willoughby |
Another on the Same We came to skip rocks on this lake but it has ended in failure. Elsewhere the couples promenade on beaches in some fairy-tale land, and it haunts us. The moon filters down but does not change the psychology. While stars, light years away, assume the souls of animals, grow distant at the touch. One should have known they'd grow wary of the finger-pointers and astronomers. One should not have brought popcorn. Yes, it will feed the swans, you say, ever the optimist, but one emaciated seagull will have to do, though the camcorder absolutely must not evidence this memory: this is one of the moments that must be tossed into the garbage-bin of time, though even garbage has its way of "recurring eternally," I warn We have dumb flesh, stupid love, I say, but do not mean to be deprecatory; no, I remember the way you "tumbled for me" and "trembled" well enough; there was for a time Happiness in Neanderthal-land, but sex isn't everything, you say, though it seems to make the world go 'round, and seems to be everything, and notwithstanding spawns generations of advertisements You leave me as if in a Hemingway short story: do I look at my fishing rods, eat a sandwich, let you take the boat back, let you fuck the Italian Major overseas? Do I look for angels and find muddy footprints in the sky? The bushes are easily flammable but one never sees them burning, And no voice leaps from the tongues of flame in any case
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