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The Answer

ISSUE:  Summer 1970

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,
just as my tongue enters silence
a thick air collects in both ears,
and then I’m in Heaven like a piece of dirt.

What did we think we came to?
A mountain? A molehill? A farm? A well?
Well, we are a little bit of gold after all,
and a small share of lumber and weed.
You could stand outside the owner’s gates
for days and yell to cause nothing.

He’s hardly ever home. Where he is,
the owl is derisive, and the cow sad.
The bird is too heavy to fly, the fish
too bloated to swim, and men like us,
drowning in words and dreams, thrash wildly
to build up the answer.


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