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Alfred Corn

Rip at the Half Moon

In the end it quells you mostly through sounding
Like the jasmine of sleep; but no less capable
For that of lending body to the figure
Who springs up on deck in a twinkle,
A life study or personal call fresh enough
To satisfy any player they’ve put on hold.

The buzz said you said I’ll get this one —
You, or an amanuensis who never failed
To avoid skipping the sort of paraphrase
That neither sweeps the table nor buffs the dice
Clean of chance in the writer’s floating,
Non-prophetic crap game.
And game is definitely the word —
The uneatable in pursuit of the unspeakable.

A Tory’s saddest when the old story’s told:
Trenches, gas, the post-war economies, facts
That leave a lump in the throat while we tear up
The pavement with rock drills and ice-picks.
Infantilism, probably. But if I err it’s just
A way of carving in (or out) a place
For my son, whether or not the clockers will
Allow such travail. The wreath that once spoke
Out so clearly now trembles on the verge
Of silence and begins to like being there, kind of.
The reason I’m trying is, it was tiring, though
We all wanted a quick swig of the wave that said,
“Wake me when you’re rested.”

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