Yeah, I have no idea why that last post posted three times. You hit a button once and you expect to just forget about it. Like nuclear war. But I'll leave the three up so you can enjoy all of M's japes.
Here's a little piece inspired by sitting in a faculty meeting for an hour and a half while they discussed hiring priorities past and future. And pretty much nothing else. All very civilized, to be sure. The poem's title is the question that started me writing instead of taking notes.
What’s Happening to the Eighteenth Century?
It’s finally winding down,
its long influence diminishing.
The children have scattered
and never write, too busy
with wars and empires of their own.
Itss taken to drinking rum in port glasses.
After a few, it goes out alone
to the old rivers it grew up near
and starts to cry. At first, softly,
but then louder until the sobs
almost shake off its pewter buttons.
Often, during full moons, it strips
away the dark, heavy clothes
and steps into the cold wondering,
as it always has, about the hollow
space a body leaves when it sinks
into the flow. More and more,
it stays in longer and longer
watching the stars
in the sky and on the water.
It reaches out to capture blossoms
or snowflakes in their seasons.
Slowly, and very late, it steps out,
returns to its tobacco and its peat fire.
If any of you are going to AWP and are looking for a roommate, I've got a room already. Shoot me an email. Or, if any of you are going to be in Atlanta for the first weekend of March and need a roommate, let me know.
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