Poetry


So, you feel reckless and lost in the art
Of holding it close while it blows apart —
Every little thing, every little life
slickly glistening, the image, the knife.
And who goes where while what goes wrong, slowly?
Missing in action? The luck of the lowly.
Nobody knows you; now, you know the score,
and somebody can always teach you more.
Open, completely, the heart of never;
learn to treasure the bonds you will sever.
This life, so overfull with hell to pay;
this world and its unconditional sway.
Allow spectacular ravages of earth —
Give us this day our habitual dearth.


"The Art of Spectacle," Twenty-Six Ways Out of This World.
(Ottawa: Oberon Press, 1990.)
© 1999-2008 Judith Fitzgerald. All Rights Reserved.

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