Summer 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 3 Poetry |

Dream for Pilate

By morning, you're down to the bed as a cross your cock as the essential first nail in the bloodwreck. Hasn't this been done before, ask the two required bodies to mumble beside, painting their nails the slim green of disappointment, and still wearing the hard hats you requested earlier. What is it about strangers failing, not only to impress but, what gets harder to understand, to be impressed, when your own body could be Calvary for the right magazine? You've got the necessary shrug for divinity, the eyes are right, suffering at their corners. . . . After the business of anointing and directing the flesh to the armoire, after the coffee's black occasion, there's the same drive to work, giving you time to note the unloveliness wind makes of trees, the stiff narrative of wheels on a road, time to imagine the room as you left it, and all the other rooms where the resurrection goes on without you. You wonder, would you make it, if you had the driver turn around now.

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Carl Phillips
Carl Phillips is the author of thirteen books of poems, most recently Reconnaissance (FSG, 2015). He teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.

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