Fall 2008 • Vol. XXX No. 4 Poetry |

V Is the Diver

V, the diver, goes down and up again, According to a beat Kept by a personal pencil point director. "You, over there." V points to "you" and you, Never objective, look vacantly away. V is for victory and verisimilitude. Roy is a ventriloquist. He has a Jerry Mahoney doll. Its head lolls and it pants as it asks, "Isn't it hot in here?" Roy says, no, it's not. At least not so very. Complaining, Roy says, is a vice. There's a V that defines the lip of the girl Over there with a lovely vulnerable canted body. One hip juts out, just slightly, thoughtlessly. Nothing annuls this moment and yet It's not the body But the ingenious scheming interior That one connects with as it unfurls its nonverbal wish To be one, let alone, and two, act In an allegory of the hidden within, Or, if not that, then three, be A symbol of the eternal grand ineffable. The ghost is one with the living person, no? Along with the embarrassment of being A vista, in which the confirming det

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