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Two Poems


BB

Bright grit, pellet, bead of summeriest bronze
Broken off the string of a furled necklace,
Pearl of my anger's petrifying slough,
I loaded the like of it one by one
One afternoon into the barrel's craw,
Then went for those boys and their mocking names
With my father's tree-target gun, my aim
Honed to the moment when the pupil narrowsó

Though no one fell at the glare of my hate,
And my brother trooped me away, the bullet
Of my self's little i, rogue period,
Smaller than this box-bound, reddish planet.
I hear thousands falling now, in the first
Drops, the patter, the babble on the roof
 

In Wax and Fire

    For Schrödinger's cat,
    and for Jeoffry, Ollie, and Zero, poets' cats

The dead cat bristles inside its box.
The live cat curls inside the dead cat's bones.
Galaxies roll through unimagined zones.
Uncertain eyes scan light's divergent tracks.

Inside the box a hammer stuns the flux
And poison flares along the dying tone.
The dead cat bristles inside its box.
The live cat curls inside the dead cat's bones

For what might be seconds, might be eons,
While atoms ricochet through space like jacks,
And what is is woven through the helix
Of what's not. Is it here or is it gone,

The dead cat bristling inside its box?
A live cat curls inside the dead cat's bones.


Daniel Tobin

The Net
Four Way Books


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