← v10n1, Spring 2011Poetry · 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. . . .
