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This poem was originally published in April, 2007, in the Spring/Summer 2007 print edition of Zeek. Our print edition features original articles, essays, poems, and art, much of which never makes it to the online edition. To subscribe, visit www.zeek.net/buy … Read More

By / March 1, 2008

This poem was originally published in April, 2007, in the Spring/Summer 2007 print edition of Zeek. Our print edition features original articles, essays, poems, and art, much of which never makes it to the online edition. To subscribe, visit www.zeek.net/buy

Because only our bodies were inclined to speak, other talk was cruel, incidental.

As if the wrong station got on the air after hours glued to one vital conversation,

then static, a frantic twist of the dial to locate the wave again. When we sang in ecstatic silence

skin was liquid, walls concave, sonorous. Till the world broke in

like a weapon striking, blood on the hands, soil. So filled with our lustful hush I couldn’t

contain it. And because we couldn’t stop, there was always music or mourning, never a grace note between.

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