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The Pointillists
- University of Massachusetts Press
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59 The PoinTiLLisTs Tonight’s many woods have the group of us— uncoiled meadow-raster—lying flat in long grass, in alumina sleepwear, winter-sighing by the twos and threes. Internal calligraphies— disassembled, transported, reassembled: exhalia. If our voice was geothermal— if our Braille-birds, generational— pastoral rictus— then the train dragging its weight down our tracks—aching saboteur of fact—would have fancied the form its destination would take. It was robbery and then it wasn’t. Dream’s slant rhyme persists with its coal-cars of orchids, sloshing high mountain rains, telling us—promising— Baby, it’s all in your head: America’s final, romantic hither. Tonight’s many woods have us thinking we’re the asterism that denies perspective, distends metaphor, dissolves harmony. Whereupon, through our exquisite lorgnette— the anaphora of star. ...