V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





At the broken gate
Of the supreme composition
He could not come to the phone.
The radiation had burned his throat.
I reasoned he didn't have to say a thing.
For the affected there is no plot.
The radiation had burned the cranial nerves.
And still they branch darkly
Out of L.A. to the sea.
Which could be nothing and anything.
The wooden spokes of a religion.
Rubrics of belief
Near to you, far from you.
There is no paradigm along the strand
Where the humans lose weight
Burning star to star,
Spot of blood to spot of blood.
They are dying to be restored and entertained
But not in the therapy that twisted his smile
And loosened his teeth,
Dropping one by one from his hands to the sea.

© by George Eklund



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