A season of grace

 

Sitting here under a tree,

the sounds of nature

begin to take on nasty vibrations.

 

Or perhaps it’s the helicopter

hovering overhead, above the trees

somewhere.

 

These constant reminders,

signal fighting signal,

are unbalancing.

 

I can see how Rimbaud got lost.

Those weird old kingdoms

on the edge of dust storms

clay-red streets, shutters closing

in hot white walls.

 

The disease, the nausea,

the unbearably deep calm

buried in every panic.

 

There is a madness,

and it has its own language.

Each of us speaks it;

Some of us proclaim it.

 

It can be an unfortunate series of events.

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One response to “

  1. I love the phrase “those weird old kingdoms” and that entire Rimbaud stanza. I think this poem abstractifies a bit beyond my grasp in the last two stanzas, perhaps because of all the “it”s, but it also seems like that’s probably intentional to (what I think is) the poem’s project of talking about crossed signals and a world that’s hard to read. I also like the short lines here, which seem to reflect both reached-for clarity and the speaker’s hesitations.

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