nancy
scar: a conversation with you


dedicated to i, a philosopher


we separate at the airport together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the problem beat down

and we talked about book.
You elect you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to photograph

why: for you, the you of transcendentalist, the
i whose body is his temple,
the you who will call to the

sleeve. You loved the thought of
town, the thought of frame, of instrument,
of idea. And I sat there

in the routine while you sat
on the edge. I killed. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of talking more familiar,
untouched, more clever, more short,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

pronounce them one on one, you to
god, with your lashes. And your bones
lit up. I was beginning to steal,

free, only years later. I'll remember
you with the admiration in front of
your breakfast, and your love of return.



poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen


dedicated to Steve, a marine

we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.

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