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Rex Mundi, or ,Watching My Father Paint What He Knows of the Horizon
- Red Hen Press
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91 Rex Mundi, or, Watching My Father Paint What He Knows of the Horizon On his cotton duck barn bottoms signal to the vein-blue sky falling back up. Others riveted on their barn skulls cough a geometric alphabet. How could he forget this orange-deep slip of land, grootmoeder pinning sheets, her knees in the crisp plié of Ohio’s horseshoe bend knuckling its abysmal barges. Soon, my father says, the Green River shale will be choked for oil. He would know: upstate, our basement pantry equipped with beans & water bought on sale. Still in their plastic—undershirts from the remainder rack. Pyramids of batteries. I chew a fingernail until it stings like a swallow of frigid air. Remember that we are dust. To my pocket of dollars he fastens a row of Old Holland teeth, cremnitz & leaden. ...