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Impedance Atlas of Particular Grief
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Shape of a scarecrow
propped up in a field just seen through the falling snow and the remaining
light, and you are inside with static on the radio but you like the hush,
that sweep that sounds like winter or a curling brush on ice as shown
on CBC that television that comes over the lake from Canada. What can
you do with light now that your mother’s gone and you still sit
on the couch thinking of her. What can the waning light do with you as
it comes through snow, emanated from the sun a thousand miles away. What
is your father doing upstairs in the attic with the transistors and the
geodes and the lighted dials, the microphones. What is your brother dreaming
of on the couch as he sleeps and leaves a sweaty mark which will show
when he gets up. What is in the mouths of all the taxidermied deer propped
up in terrifying poses—if a deer can be in a terrifying pose. And
what is in your thoughts on Liz that unknown X.
Being left behind is a mine a
dollar hidden in the sand the sand so close together it becomes a clot
a tiny galaxy a buzzword circling its dictaphone hive.
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