Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2016  Vol. 15 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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“All sympathy not consistent with acknowledged virtue is but disguised selfishness.”
—S. T. Coleridge, Omniana

That word again, haunting Coleridge
like a hellhound, rolling like a dislodged boulder.

I mean, crushing all.
There was perhaps sincerity in the kingfisher

perched on the concrete edge
of the artificial pond, the reedy stalks

gray with frost, and distantly the pluck-pluck
of the local woodpecker. There was our furniture,

the sublime that remained slime,
the fluff-headed mergansers cruising still waters,

ever on the make. I saw everything,
I thought. Not the hours longing

for the blunt knife of her gaze. Not the haze
of philosophy, or millefiori, for that. Ah, ah.

Once the “silent majority” meant the dead.  

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