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March 11, 2015

Two Poems

Alec Hershman

Two Poems photo



When I got home there were three pears
on the ornamental table.

Where I'd been?
It was nowhere wisdom fussed or shoved into
still-life or accoutrement.
A few aisles, maybe. Some canned goods.

I was the doctor with Imposter Syndrome.
I was the curator for fear of being art.

Like a glade turning to ice,
or the gold stripe in a red rope, imperceptible
was the difference between a conversation
and a “speech activity,”
without feeling
until it wasn't.

Tough to have a face
in the late weather of Empire.
Hard to hear that one another
talking in the snow.


Rutabaga Rutabaga

A snow-sheared, chemical glance stirs
a bit of pity in me—the smaller kind
removed from now for myself, in which I fit
and did so all along among the dethroned horses,
and general hubbub of the marketplaces,
each local and warm and similar
as a heart beholden of snow—
the gluey choke of goals
relinquished so mountainous and gladly
for brief and ample pleasures: friends, let's talk.

image: Aaron Burch