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November 14.

 I see him counting his hundred Plastic bags a hundred shades and
thinnesses I see his face I see hers Ragged street-sleepers under a pass
Out of the rain together she resting I see his haunted cheeks his sores
But walk on into my guilt Watching the inventions of a civilization
Driving itself around And farting at home with the computer And soon
eyes and hearts and cocks Will trundle out into the spheres Unhinged
wistful alone I pass Whistling thru a sensate city Loving yellow night
across the water thrown Cloudshapes out like monologues In a one-act in
which 5:16 means twilight As if the script itself were caving in
Virescence in the shadows of the trees the trees Cleave to the water and
the people But I worry when the wind changes That we're all in
danger The lamp-eyed cat and the unselfconscious birds Song-held in the
cowl Of this corner of the enchantment A muttering industrial of tin and
trash burglars Within which is this living image Of the couple of those
my poet-friend calls Hikers
  forever down here His face a mess and she resting Where the downtown
hotels deposit their sheets Where the government came years ago To bury
its questions in the gentle mud 

JESSE NATHAN studies, writes, and edits poetry. He lives in San Francisco.

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Title Annotation:two poems
Author:Nathan, Jesse
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 1, 2016
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Next Article:New poetry in translation: friendships between ghosts.

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