restricted access [you have come, seeking]
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[you have come, seeking]

you have come, seeking refuge, resuscitated, not once, but twice,the air is yours, the earth is, filled with compassion, it does not know,its rescue, relief, moral, inclination, you have gone, past, confused,your occupation, with that of a contestant, whose activities, youmemorize, like patterns, to consume,

you are a plot, you are a trance, a blankness, you have collaboratedon the calamity, ignorant of consequence, difference worries you, yetyou are willing to go along, try your hand at anything, as long as it is,within the parameters,

you are an outsider, and your fate has been determined by thegatekeepers, there is no rest, not for you or for others, and your timehere is up, reached its mark, its mistake, has come to its resting place,with your back turned to it, as though to all,

your oppression is, and your mouth is a handful of wool, and yourfeatures others’ features, you have prepared your children, by makingthem, routine, to stare at the screen with infatuation,

a heroine, your country, gone the way, of, even without the names, ofthose, consumed, by the system, amassed, hardly a day passes, hardlya time, a fragment, or considered, response is given, mention,

you’ve held, in the hallways, their hands, you’ve kissed, the detachments,without consideration, of one who has been, carried here, alone, withtruth, without exaggeration, evidence, without the remorse,

the assistance, of the one who gave birth, a refusal, of everything,that has ever come upon,

like retrieval, like solace, like rest [End Page 134]

Lisa Lubasch

Lisa Lubasch is the author of Twenty-One After Days, To Tell the Lamp, Vicinities, and How Many More of Them Are You?, all from Avec Books. She is also the translator of Paul Éluard’s A Moral Lesson, published by Green Integer. She co-edits the press Solid Objects.