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August 19, 2019 Poetry

two poems

Tommy O’Rourke

two poems photo

FANTASIA FOR FOUR HANDS

Hello. This is my body. 
It makes me terrible. 
Someone opens it regularly.
It is opened regularly. 
I am always the same thing: 
what’s missing.

Make a sentence about joy.
Sometimes he is dying but he never dies. 
Let’s say it one more time: 
God
I am so thirsty. 
Here are my instruments. 
I can use my own hands
to separate an apple into two halves. 

The base time unit—the second—
a fly beats its wings a thousand times a second.
Ancient. Recent.
Song the past tense of sing. 
O drain the killing fields,
farmer harvesting wedding rings.

Once a month the river floods.
The spring is heavier than the sun.
I was doing chores when the storm clouds formed.
All of a sudden the storm horn sounded.
“No sports for now,” said Dad. “We need to work
Until we are sore.”

Rain, will you read these words for me?
I’m coming. 
I’m coming.

 

SELF-PORTRAIT AT 25

that 
the
branch
falling
from
the
highest
bough
of
the
elm
landing
in
a
puddle
landed
on
its
own
image
when
it
fell

image: Laura Gill


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