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He is gall & shadowplay, a viewfinder
Whose eye is spyglassed, orbing
Some radiance around his son, cantilevered:
The two souls
weighed upon the balance, throbbing
With the brinkmanship Cold War light. Boy in a gold plastic
Fencing mask, two plastic foils, rubber-tipped
To blunt such struggle. But the story’s governed & fixed—
Meet the stranger at the crossroads. Strike
Him down & finish him. He drops to the lawn;
His lids flutter shut
& when he requickens
His shadow joins him once again, horn-rims
Adjusted, a Kool straight lit in a trembling hand
To celebrate his resurrection. Touch the wounds,
He says—the side, the hands.
Touch now, it is permitted.
Introduction
Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements