Quantcast

Three Poems | The Nation

  •  

Three Poems

  • Share
  • Decrease text size Increase text size

*

Zero built a nest
In my navel. Incurable
Longing. Blood too--

From violent actions
It's a nest belonging to one
But zero uses it
And its pleasure is its own.

         
(from The Quietist)

*

The limits have wintered me
as if white trees were there to be written on.

It must be purgatory
there are so many letters and things.

Faith, hope and charity rise in the night
like the stations of an accountant.

And I remember my office, sufficiency.

         
(from O'Clock)

*

The stains of blackberries near Marx's grave
do to color what eyes do to everything.
Help me survive my own presence, open to the elements.

Fog mist palloring greens, no demarcations,
but communitarian gravestones.

Celts lost to Anglo Saxons who endlessly defended marks.
Guerrilla war, terror:
the tactics for landless neo-realists.

         
(from O'Clock)

Subscriber Log In:

Subscribe Now!
The only way to read this article and the full contents of each week's issue of The Nation online on the day the print magazine is published is by subscribing. Subscribe now and read this article—and every article published since 1865 in our 148 year digital archive—right now.
There's no obligation—try The Nation for four weeks free.

 

 
  • Share
  • Decrease text size Increase text size

Before commenting, please read our Community Guidelines.