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CONCRETE-CHILD

from An Apogee


Amid the old Prefecture rust
of runes inscribed on corrugate
lies, still awake, a concrete-child
confabulating with stardust.

The omen-woman said he was
(abridged) an astral interbreed
to populate the hidden worlds
of which alone her eyes had seen.

The truth, as always importune
was – straightly – that paternity
a cataract congenital
had giv’n, to blind inside the womb.

His eyes, a black outcropped with white,
speckled with blue coagulate:
the starry dome of Chinatown
waste-mongrels said was mirror-like.

They watched him, peeping from the brick;
preternal things expected they;
when, as a man, at last could speak,
said, “I am not come from the dead.”

The mortar took they to the panes,
made it their aspirations like;
and drove the deaded factories
to chime in funeral melodies.

The doltish interstellar dog
they drove to canine families,
and of their lucky zodiac
at last did write an epilog.

He dwelt in mansions insular,
by isolation petrified
where still dwelt Queen Victoria
communing with the playwrights old.

Upon some altar long-forgot
a bullish volume megalith
dot-raised, for eyes all finger-like
could trace, and understand in type.

Confabulated suddenly
the nonsense of all words The Word;
a doggerel expected he,
received a psalm preternally.

Then was he cognizant of worlds,
and gasped that he could interpose
his brutish form upon the wright
of whom the stars sing, each to each.

Immediate the countersign,
a Year of Dog satirical;
and to the well for nibs, a Jew
went to Chinese Samaria.






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