Winter 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2002 |

What Kind of Man

What kind of man hides in the duck blinds? The days of description are over. The days of It was April so Everyone Felt Hopeful, where you could find in the swaying willow a precise match for your own foggy sentiments. She tightened her grip on the hospital bed because giving up meant subscribing to heaven when the earth seemed all thistle and pod and digging up the flower beds. Don't hunt down a pattern here. Don't think the man at the bus stop wielding a crowbar stands for a shiver when the sun disappears at four o'clock. I'm not obliquely building a parallel, making a case. I won't put sepia around it, walking the black labs in the reeds while the quail fans its wings like a deck of cards. I'd want Mozart there, Wolfgang with the hysterical cackle of the child genius. To see how he'd perform among the amorphous, inchoate, obscure scores of the century, when surprises are loading shells into cartridges, when what I thought was starlight was chipped porcelai

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