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Tuesday, November 9, 2010

1998

--for Nick McCabe

As the India Palace burned to the ground

caramel light poured from warm windows,

swing dancers stood still. Weathermen frowned.

Laws too complex to be implemented
curled like a liver on Friday.

My teachers told me long ago
to breathe in deep
when things got rough
but now they say I sigh too much

and like a decomposing theory under test,
the body racking up debt,
one of summer’s last cicadas

forget metaphysical
revelations in the sidestreets.

The future is hungry
for what we are lacking
it will never receive--

a sense of purpose all but blown
to my mind
as to pudgy adolescents,
wrists in their hands
wondering when
their completion's achieved,
when confusion will slow
when scenarios
cease to cancel scenarios.

When caramel light pours from warm windows
every school year

I stop and dream
what it must feel like
to not be forever eighteen.

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