Spring 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1991 |

Resurrection

Why come back to the siegeto rise again, morally superiorbut pale as an image? Impaledbut saved. For one week in autumn, the chanterelles thrived, and we sliced theminto crystal bowls. Pounds of them. As if a balalaika broke the mood, Lea, barefoot, danced her parody—with his finger Kenny pluckedhigh-pitched harp-notes and wings seemed plausible. Of course, at the time they were finishing up as a couple, and an enormous sigh hung over the afternoon. We talked about sex, which pleases us more nowthan slaving over it; no real bodieswounded by the sharp, hysterical cry of the intimate. I was trying to bring back Fran Renaldo, who later marriedthe idiot mailman. Would she remember the notes, so intricate, we followed through the woods? Finches, as I'd learn later. 

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