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Simple things like bread,

you can’t even think about them.

The lesson of skin touching skin,

the lesson of earth as it rolls in darkness,

the lesson of things as they are.

The mind collapses under the weight

of so much thinking. It’s almost tragic.

The road has no thought of distance.

The road is just the road.

Words don’t think us,

words on a table among the other meats,

words like summers passing.

In blue organdy dresses,

the policemen are euphoric.

Transparent and irreverent,

the wide face of lightning

is pressed to water’s surface.

The century is thick with history

and the worst of intentions.

The very worst intentions,

and all I can drink lately

is the filthy holy water.

from Winter (Mirror)Find more by Paul Hoover at the library

Copyright © Paul Hoover
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Paul Hoover Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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