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Sunday, August 07, 2005

Cole Swensen - Two Poems

The Hand Etched in Glass

We knew this was coming. We always thought they were flying. But, no, it's light alone. It's morning and the light is streaming in. Blinding, you think, and put your hand up to your eyes. And stayed. We're all part window. There's someone coming in through the french window, but you don't notice him; you notice the window.

The Hand Photographed

Here we tend toward particulars, though they remain black & white and/or the black before the door, the white, slipping out. They're more angular than their portraits would have led you to believe you could live here too - we're not as poor as we look. Photographs have a way of implying that it was a little cold that day, or that we live like pets in the laps of everyone who wanted something else.

[from Double Room]

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