by Hugh Fox
No Nazis so far this afternoon, but what about
all the break-ins in Everywherevilles, and the
Hand of Earthquake punching down on Haiti,
my sister-in-law’s pancreatic death-sentence,
in today’s obits no one over seventy-five and
I’m seventy-eight, Nazi cancering and suicide-
bombing, and even if everything was just sliding
down the perfect river in perfect sunlight, the
bowels start to go, the joints, tumors are born
smiling on the left side of the brain, the tongues
and clitori and toenails, hair and kneecaps,
baby-seeds and sperm all so perfectly planned
as we spin around sun-perfect seasons into
(where is He,
where are They?)
Culmination.
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Interesting approach to writing about the chaos of the.
ReplyDeleteVery fine poem dealing with subject matter not often looked at in contemporary poetry.
ReplyDeleteDonal Mahoney