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Tuesday, March 26, 2013


Children used as fuel in woodstoves to heat the house—
Oh well, I thought, in this hideous dream, probably too late
to help them anyhow, though they must be in pain, but that’s the way
we heat our homes these days, and though I went back to reading the book
because, after all, there was work to do, I awoke in a sweat
and remembered—I had forgot to set the clock.

Somewhere inside me lives someone who knows how to shock me.
He uses images because he does not have words.
And never the obvious ones
like an image of me failing to set the alarm.
I’d like to know who he is and how he knows so much
and why he keeps such careful track of everything
I’m hoping to lose—like time.
And why he spends all night
shouting at me.


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