Fred Wah


the loop of his death
Septembers a smoke of resistance
mountains too, the town milled
elephantine in the episteme
(nice word) if you can get it
toxilogical page dying
his body knows the time
why I am the space slowed down to breathing
Dostoevsky's metaphor
the valley could be my lung
when I die "I" doesn't
you get it
all the air a flight from Mt. Soma
never know aporia

The East Village Poetry Web