← v10n1, Spring 2011
Poetry · Volume 10, Number 1

Again

It’s always been potatoes and bread

or millions of francs on speculation.

I am not stupid. I’m not dead.

But the bones of an old cow assemble

repeatedly now in a dream

where my naked lame father

sits in a tub of boiling milk

and screams at me

first my name and then his name

which is the same

name. The crimes of the verb to be

pushing a hard rain in general

across the city and its suburbs. . . .