Wednesday, March 5, 2008

New Poem


To see death on the television now is to see only
resurrection. So the actress returns next week,
freed by providence or dumb luck
to eat peaches, wash her face, start a new book.
In this way we know to admire her perseverance.
Lawrence said the dead walk among us
so slowly we cannot hear their footsteps.
The skein of past closing over the living
is a critique of apostasy he wrote in the madhouse.
It is static disrupting the digital feed.
It is the music that plays when there is no music
to articulate our eagerness for restoration,
our expectation of one last epilogue.
What perpetuates itself seeks no beginning
among the forms of our triumph.
Jelly beans ornament unremarkable seeds
but the finches, like constellations, know not to pick them out.

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