by James Harmon Clinton

Edward praises white heat, the unapproachable sublime,
and Lucinda raises an inflected map of the South,
directs it all from above. Elvis at the Overton Shell,
the Beatles at Abbey Road, Judy at Carnegie Hall.
The irony that bleeds from coincidence.

If you check out early, say even before your children
are born, what emanations will survive, what luminous
waves? What if, like an assumed god, you are not quite
disinterested from all these observed phenomena,
how then will your existence be deduced?

My Delta flight chases sunset into the western sky,
forfeits somewhere over Tennessee. In the lavatory,
I swallow three kinds of medicine: one for pain, one
for infection, one for regret. The pilot is speaking,
but winter is near and despair so willing.


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