Summer 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 3/4 Poetry |

The Gene

I abhor this clapping of thunder,the air loud and swirling like a drill routing the tropical green. I hate the verge of damage. And this war, always some war, left like a razor on the sinkwhile god stuffs a shaft of light into the lake,stirs some dirt into the heat.Does the word "stone" give you a little starrysensation? Do you know the blind volerelishes the world through its nose and feetlargely as degrees of dampness and cold? And you, dearest, what do you love?

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I abhor this clapping of thunder,the air loud and swirling like a drill routing the tropical green. I hate the verge of damage. And this war, always some war, left […]

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I abhor this clapping of thunder,the air loud and swirling like a drill routing the tropical green. I hate the verge of damage. And this war, always some war, left […]

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