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from The Frome Primer

To stay the writing hand, just now
when it seems whole continents are shifting
off their axes, now the roof tiles on the roof
clatter and won’t sit still. To revive lint
that is torn, earth linenless rooms,
to fix mouths that move
to the same rhythm that our mouths
moved to, to think and describe clearly
sometimes become impossible.
Ours wasn’t an age of polished evenings
the sky transparent on the skyline
-there was barely room for
consolation. Each night for a month
a comet blazed across the night sky,
that was ten years ago, a time when
the first war in the gulf could still be exalted
and signs still taken as wonders.
So, dear friend, no need to ask if I’m nostalgic
for the old life , nor to speak
of the high velocity of current times.
I was obstinate and believed these times
would pass. I’ll write again one high April
morning, when, under a feral moon
the captured have been lifted, astonished
out of signs and prevailing transparencies
return, the common dream.

this is from a series of twenty six poems. the primer element being like the shepards calander
attempting to represent seasonable shifts  

30 Jun 07

(define the words in this poem)
(1 more poem by this author)

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what is this?/
didn't get it
 — unknown

axes? axis
our wasn't an age?

i think you might be trying too hard to sound deep.
 — unknown

axes is the plural of axis. Typo of our (should read ours).
but have corrected.
 — karly22

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