I don’t know how to act because. It affects me posthumously.
I cannot recognize myself.
I used to have a few ideas. Now I’d rather drink beer.
And the city is the same everywhere.
Links of the distant renew my bereavement.
I can’t fathom such loss of memory. Grace isn’t covert.
Nor even retrospect.
Recurrence is its own consigning delight.
We let this high talk lapse: the dead lean into the wind.
It will not pass from them, though the survivors slip into passion.
The sound of born worlds indefinitely.
Continually close to tears as it takes us.
–excerpt from THE TRANSITS OF REVELATION, 120 pages, $15.99
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