Fall 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 4 Poetry |

Against Whitman

I know our decision to live doesn't come from within, that even the smallest sprout shows there really is no death.           Erosion leads us onward, the cliffs that break us down, the sea that sweeps clean our greatest triumphs, our mistakes— the statute of a god          uncovered from seaweed, the body of my cousin. All goes out and down when everything collapses, but if to die is different than anyone supposes—and luckier— it begs the question          I have yet to ask.

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