Lucie Brock-Broido

              I was at home under the shade of the gumbo-limbo tree Reading the story of what happened to the little elephant with unbridled                Curiosity.  Still, I ask too many questions, even now.               I was imagining the common turtle on his Lucite island In the hollow of the claw-foot tub in our attic dying off with               Little drama all that summer long, the water getting imperceptibly                More shallow every day, while I was riding brindled horses

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Left fifteenth floor an hour ago. Still snow, third of April Of the year, moss-agate still. Will try to will myself To sleep. Magical thoughts move intravenously in hospital, And there is also harm beyond my own imagination’s gift For clemency. Turned one hematite-dark square In the Unresponsive Blood Ward, one rose angle past             Denial looking at his torso bare. North of Stockholm, in a dulled medieval painting Nearly primitive, a feudal lord is playing chess with bony Death (come, of course, to take our marrow’s lives). File Or rank, I would be the chalkstone rook.

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