| Locked in the beauty of the pearl, far from frail, these people who claim to love us still they don’t give up much, do they, sealed? To eradicate class— the looking glass of it, the complex glare: “Let me introduce xxx, impoverished poet.” Winter let up like a terrible religion. In its wake, a politics came, profane. You were on a train from Philly to Mass. Winter let up like bands and globes and globules and I could feel the trade ships in my bloodstream, the blood that made me, and I wanted to kill it really bad like a war path. They said my poems were a mess. Well, if that’s the case, then, go ahead. Strike one match and the mansion will go up in its own ash, in its obsession with accumulation against the glint of trees. Copyright © 2016 Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. |
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