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A STRESS ON SUNSET: À LA LIPSKA
(-For Ewa Lipska and Marina Ciccarini
--
I frequent some prophets on whom i count…. This is nowhere written yet, tho the words are on their way already.
Ewa Lipska, Love, Dear Mrs. Schubert
)
Dear Ladies, my constant companions, whom I continually
Read with phrases from bygone years, still do you remember
The USSR? Anti-fascism? Or a dozen winged cognates, no
Longer actual or possible: student life? Honesty? A minimally
Survivable winding way of life, track path route course ford
Path ferry pontoon tunnel subway tube passage – even gateway?
Door — avenue — entrance? Anyhow, somehow or other? An America
To dream of, a rich Indies carnally delightful? Can the fires
Burning the world down still also forge? Our crimes have grown
Up, they are self-sufficient and smirk at the elders. Can we gamble
For a world beyond evil shockwaves of stupid rulers? I name
Them: big banks, Big Pharma, agribusiness, weird commanders-
In chief of capital mass murders.
And yet there whoosh some strange
Loves still down the Highway toward the Sun, spurning
Diminution. Despite the ongoing tic-tac of the grandfather clock,
Reaping, i keep all revolts burnished, hug them closely to me.
Snowstorms of memory coalesce in a monument not set into stone, for
It is still too soon to be too late.