Fall 1993 • Vol. XV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1993 |

The Camps

"Yes, art is palliative; but the substance of art is real. Can you make something from nothing?" IVAN TOLKACHENKO When the young brown-haired woman was shot a drop of blood swayed briefly on the end of her nose and her brother for an instant thought of a lantern. ∙ Without announcement the burning candle in the back room became a pistol firing. ∙ As the kittens were born the father of the little girl bashed the head of each one against a rock. She watched. This was in another country. It was in several other countries. ∙ The town is divided between those who sit in a dark corner of what remains of their houses unwilling to see anyone and those who go out into what remains of the street unwilling not to see everyone. ∙ The cats come and go fiercely licking the assholes of moribund diarrheic children. ∙ A sparrow flew into the high loft above the people lying on the floor and fluttered here and there crying and cheeping as if tryin

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