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To A Wren on Calvary, and: Labyrinth As the Erasure of Cries Heard Once Within It or: (Mr. Bones I Suc ceed ed. . .' Later), and: The Clearing of the Land, and: As It Begins with a Brush Stroke on a Snare Drum

To A Wren on Calvary, and: Labyrinth As the Erasure of Cries Heard Once Within It or: (Mr. Bones... TO A WREN ON CALVARY / "Prince Jesus, crush those bastards ..." --François Villon, Grand Testament It is the unremarkable that will last, As in Brueghel's camouflage, where the wren's withheld, While elsewhere on a hill, small hawks (or are they other Are busily unraveling eyelashes & pupils From sunburned thieves outstretched on scaffolds, birds?) Their last vision obscured by wings, then broken, entered. I cannot tell whether their blood spurts, or just spills, Their faces are wings, & their bodies are uncovered. The twittering they hear is the final trespass. And all later luxuries--the half-dressed neighbor couple Shouting insults at each other just beyond Her bra on a cluttered windowsill, then ceasing it when A door was slammed to emphasize, like trouble, From the child's toy left out on a lawn The quiet flowing into things then, spreading its wake To the broken treatise of jet-trails drifting above--seem Keel scrapes on the shores of some enlarging mistake, A wrong so wide no one can speak of it now in the town That once had seemed, like its supporting factories That manufactured poems & weaponry, Like such a good idea. And wasn't it everyone's? Wasn't the sad pleasure http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

To A Wren on Calvary, and: Labyrinth As the Erasure of Cries Heard Once Within It or: (Mr. Bones I Suc ceed ed. . .' Later), and: The Clearing of the Land, and: As It Begins with a Brush Stroke on a Snare Drum

The Missouri Review , Volume 13 (3) – Oct 5, 1991

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930
Publisher site
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Abstract

TO A WREN ON CALVARY / "Prince Jesus, crush those bastards ..." --François Villon, Grand Testament It is the unremarkable that will last, As in Brueghel's camouflage, where the wren's withheld, While elsewhere on a hill, small hawks (or are they other Are busily unraveling eyelashes & pupils From sunburned thieves outstretched on scaffolds, birds?) Their last vision obscured by wings, then broken, entered. I cannot tell whether their blood spurts, or just spills, Their faces are wings, & their bodies are uncovered. The twittering they hear is the final trespass. And all later luxuries--the half-dressed neighbor couple Shouting insults at each other just beyond Her bra on a cluttered windowsill, then ceasing it when A door was slammed to emphasize, like trouble, From the child's toy left out on a lawn The quiet flowing into things then, spreading its wake To the broken treatise of jet-trails drifting above--seem Keel scrapes on the shores of some enlarging mistake, A wrong so wide no one can speak of it now in the town That once had seemed, like its supporting factories That manufactured poems & weaponry, Like such a good idea. And wasn't it everyone's? Wasn't the sad pleasure

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Oct 5, 1991

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