The American Poetry Review, July 1st, 1995
1.
Across the urban sky the slow bass sound of jets, invisibly latticed, so many vibrating strings. They are this century's music, a soft tearing of air, a music of excoriation, a larger breathing
2.
than us all. In grey November air, the museum's a dark canvas. Outside, people pause and talk hesitantly about real lives, too small or large
3.
to be contained. Driving west in evening, in what seemed then a larger dream, he stopped in a small mountain town. Taking the map, the butcher traced with sinewy fat and blood on his fingers the fibrous sections of roads
4.
through green. The gra...
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