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186 DAVID POSTON Cento, Selected Works “Change,” they said, sea talk from an old book of riddles, bedlam et cetera. Listen with the eye, taste and remember what the light was like. Six kinds of creature— cloud sun fountain statue teeth and bones. Twelve moons, a stun of jewels, bright November, every star a tongue, water breathing air. Tongue without hands, the bread god whispering to fool the wind. Put thou thy tears into my bottle. To fuck is to love again; kyrie eleison kerista. Blessings, the body gave, bread rather than blossoms. The love bit, the natural need, baptism of desire, the moods of love. Sunday is a day of incest, my daughters, my sisters. You come singing tunes for bears to dance to. Picnic, lightning, words to the wind. 187 Beware, soul brother, Christmas in Biafra, Moscow in the wilderness, Segovia in the snow, night shift at the crucifix factory, the death bell once for the last bandit, the dream of Jake Hopkins, the nightmare factory, a shot in the park. Why is the house dissolving? To see the matter clearly, archaeology is a destructive science. The terrible shears the world. I breathe the sorrows of cold stone to the place of trumpets. Figments of the firmament, where water comes together with other water. Pictures of the gone world, the work of one night in the dark, solitary confinement, New Jersey State Prison, Trenton. From the avenue bearing the initial of Christ into the new world, John nobody, walking underwater, leaves and ashes the color as, naked, the darkness surrounds us, the color of dust. 188 High tide in the garden, the garden where all loves end. After every green thing forty days, apple nights, the dark flags of waking. The girl in the yellow raincoat, walking past midnight, walking to sleep, her body against time, black shawl moon in a mason jar. Angel, interrupted, this close to the earth. Color is the suffering of light gathering the mountains, the stone harp, freedom’s plow. Beyond the withered oak ten thousand saplings grow poem rising out of the earth and standing up in someone. Praise to the end some things words can do. ...


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