CHROMATIC LESIONS
Wind swept impermanence of this endless winch.
Myriad mouths of beings multiplied, dulcified, zithered through history.
Wingless butterflies less lost than I am
under the caterpillar treads redesigning my face pilgrimage.
Yet this autumn is beautiful,
and beautiful the loss underscored by sunlight and safe night sleep.
I have sealed my own destructiveness, cauterized its principle feelers.
Why can’t I accept that Hitler one way or another is stirring much of
the unseen porridge, not cunning Adoph
but the crocodile levity in men—
laugh-in howl-out against which I sniffle
fixed in my high chair
listening to grandpa read a letter from the ex-Russian renter
writing the Eshleman family about the horrors of the siege of Leningrad.
Everything is and has never been a milling, amorphous terribilita
searching for desire in which to curl.
I have learned to see
in the faces of the dead
a jug of rose-white chickadee explodes
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