Summer 1949 • Vol. XI No. 3 Poetry |

Song

Either the world is empty or I am, A whole man sang to the piecemeal sun. I touch her where she hurts and then The smokes on the horizon come. Where does she hurt? Her eyes.? She sees, but does not say she does, That water is ice. Should parks turn green While children wither in her groves? Where does she hurt? Her ear? No one that speaks need be believed The one way, once it has been said. Dishonors the pluralistic dead. Where does she hurt? Her skin? That touchy garment, turning in, Tells her where everything is felt Trouble how many ways is spelt. If no one ever touched her but to please, Tell me how the world would seem. Meanwhile I sing, beneath her sun, Either that I am empty, or her dream.

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Funeral

By Arthur Boyars

Either the world is empty or I am, A whole man sang to the piecemeal sun. I touch her where she hurts and then The smokes on the horizon come. […]

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