On October 12, three inches of snow draped the broad
shoulders of our white pine like a moth-eaten shawl. Three inches of snow
covered the lush green lawns of summer across the Twin Cities. Three inches of
snow were the most to have collected here this early since 1977. For much of the
citizenry, this was a near disaster, a cruel reminder of things to come. In
short, it was downright terrible, but terrible
Several years ago, I had the pleasure of accompanying Dara
and James Tate to the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. Afterward we wandered over
the Ashbery bridge, which spans the interstate separating the garden from a
city park. On the park side we found a couple cooking salmon over a campfire. A
sight I had never seen before or since. It was one of those charmed moments
when the unexpected blesses you with its occurrence, and by doing so it
enlivens you, much like a Wier poem.
-- William Waltz
The Terrible Poem
I’ve never told a soul what it is I believe.
Things never will never stop getting stop more stop long
stop, ago.
Everything material in theory is able to cast a shadow.
Everything’s shadow is a different shade of black with
violent overtones.
If someone says a sheep is nothing but a big box of mittens
I don’t think it will enable me to sleep better tomorrow.
The girl placed a cocoon in a glass jar too small for what
emerged.
I placed a hermit crab near by, next to, a fire.
We look for something beautiful and do unmendable damage.
I have a clear memory of something I’m sure hasn’t happened.
It’ll take a while to drag the freaks away from their cribs.
Hey baby, say a while will you while will you while will
you.
That is our lullaby, that is our unnamable anthem, you are
catgut.
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