In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

46 SOMETHING IS ALWAYS SAYING HELLO The damp of breath on the kitchen table— Not my breath— In the hour when every house Leans to the light. I want to say I am done with this For life cannot sustain The small ears into which God complains— Even breathing is an act of violence, a wonderment of blades— Hear peepers in the bog beneath three hawks’ high rasping— Every leaf turned is a small bird scratching For pale clumps of bread I threw into rain. It is morning. Something close by Is dying. Backup alarms from machinery toll out near, then faintly. Dampness on the table spreads. The windows are dark— I keep them dark, and still, finches shattered— Visible wind. Flesh, the scent of flesh carbonized by flame. ...

Share