Spring 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 2000 |

Downstairs

You visit friends and spend the night and sleep late the next morning and wake hearing one of them on the phone downstairs, you can't make out the words---    "She stemby demby frambers noyly from odgely nells,    but---flem the hurb? The gobbin. Yeah.    Sharmy gobbin hurb a harb the ubbage, gobbin gibbs!    Oh, yeah. And Billy bebble donner whinny clong    the damey dominoes. Okay.... Me too." ---The words are not for you but in the cadences and in the tonal modulations you hear the infinity of human complication complicating itself further humanly beyond your little puddle of waking. It's like an ocean, it's like a train, it's like a train made of fulminous salty water roaring softly down the track, downstairs and far away, and soon as you wash your face you see someone destined always to have missed the train, the point, a soul without a ticket waking always in the station when the human epic has rolled away, bound for odgely nells, bound

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