The East Village

Gwyn McVay

from THE LIP


At Srah Srang, a lion roaring over the wet fields

A jelly of light and matter, fašades of temples
Sand, coal, pebbles, bits of glass

Two forms, indigo and violet,
dancing the Argentine tango

Is he blue? meaning, one of us?

A talking head on black background announces the test
This too is a bell : a swallow flies out of its nose

We are descended from them : they live above us

The      subway train

new rain or
on the lip?

sepia promise :wine of America

swimming, with no turnback
afloat, devoutly
a race to the climax

robin trying straight forward
his sound of stretching a rubber band

transmit noise
purified of meaning
and flies swarm

The flight of the dodo has a name.
A sticker on peeling wallpaper anyway. Now it was a vision.

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