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The Poverty of Fact

One lizard is less than one word.

Whose tongue unscrolls to taste the dust?

The walls of the mind are painted

Hot pink, the color of electricity.

Either aether or ore, the barrens accumulate.

Forgive me, I have not eaten today.

I am a talking picture, nothing more

Than a tissue wedged between ages of silence.

Frame by frame, the bus window

Animates the still desert.

By the roadside, the skull of Taurus whitens

Beaconwise—

Correspondent to the unspilled sky.

His horns are garlanded with wandering planets.

This evening in the plaza

Heaven is the guitar that plays itself.

Old church, a rubble patch. Stop here to venerate

The bloody stumps of the black cactus.

Canyon I call for no answer.

To be accurate, a man goes back to his ghost.

As the militia guards the volcano, so

Is necessity measured, against the will.

[Hecho en México, Mayo 2002]

from The Sound MirrorFind more by Andrew Joron at the library

Copyright © 2008 Andrew Joron
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Andrew Joron 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.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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