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3 relatively short, unrelated poems. |
Untitled Late November on a vast expanse of farmland, and for many miles around too, the cold is setting in. The ground is hard and the soil lies motionless, stubborn, its fertility frozen by the season. “I’ll bet…”, thinks the tender of that land, while kneeling in the icy dirt, stroking the dead fruits of his labor, “I’ll bet that if I dug a hole I’d get to China.” He reckoned it were summer there. “But they don’t speak my language”, thought the brown-haired tender of the land. He knelt some hundred long, flat yards from his front porch, and the house behind, and the wife within, where the hearth was surely warm. His right knee rested on the ground, and his elbow rested atop his left, and he looked out in no direction; he tried to see if the Earth did curve. In the twilight hours, The air had filled with too much moisture for the frigid night to hold, and so the frost began to form, in the twilight hours, whilst he lay sleeping in his bed, and knowing that the ground was slowly, surely, turning into solid ice. He poked at the surface, stabbed it with his spade; the stolid ground gave no reply. And thinking it weren’t any use, he shuffled home, and let out a sigh. One-Way Dialogue The world is a series of lights and an array of shadows, and darkened greens outside my window. Why must my life rise and fall with the on again, off again cooperation of a computer screen? * Machine, O Machine of mine Won’t you play the song for me? Let me hear the music. * You’ve spared me my autonomy, now won’t you just please open Word? * I cannot function without you. What am I without you? Nothing but a sad, confused, and Laptop-less young man. Space I feel like the blazing star Right at the very center Of my very own solar system. And the planets, and the comets Revolve around me in patterns extravagantly complicated, whose paths I cannot discern. I can’t begin to comprehend the meaning of their rotations, either. The innumerable meteorites, like so many bread crumbs, burning up in the orange skies of the planets. It’s known that they depend on me, To provide them with my gravity. So that they don’t just go spinning off into the coldness of the cosmos; the vast and ceaseless blackness, where there is no signpost. But they do not appear, lately, to condescend to notice me, as they go about Their annual acrobatics Too absorbed, they seem, with their own atmospheres these days. We have our own storms, and our own cataclysms they’d say. Well hereby, I resolve, from now on to tell the celestial bodies that lie within my orbit just how I feel. No longer will I share my thoughts with lifeless asteroids |