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Issue 16, Poesía | August 2015

     

Holbein

		1.

I stare through this green block of ice
at the high fold between her shoulders
and conclude the ass 
is even more a pear
than it was in the morning
when I woke to the song of the dead tanager.
That’s right, another beheading yesterday.
Worms in the wheat. Diamonds
in barley.

		2.

My father’s friend from across the pond
died all of a sudden
this early winter.

I saw the sternum
yellow and sunken?

Why are details 
such a consolation.
The enumeration
even of the deaths

mesmerizes.
Holbein