For Deirdre Lickona
Tonight, the bluish TV screen warps into wine’s darkness–
Each hollowed head, each explosion, each kiss or gun
Stretches its restless bandwidth as through a glass vessel.
I lie. Nothing is going on outside. A dog barks
That same nothing in the moon’s language, although archeology
Has long since laid him to rest: in Pharaohs’ tombs, [Read more…]