Objects as Ourselves

The century's incandescent. In syllables of sand, the depressed voice of history says craving for food artist, boogie nights, the hum boom room's last good fight Tangled upon the ground like Chinese lanterns, the days past and present; its face erased by dint of words, the body in the garden.

Annealed to bone brushed through the sun, flesh is architecture, a white

shadow turning.

Strong as a the deity but sweet as panic, the real is excessive, its last bone note no evidence of indifference.

I came here dust and injury up distance. You can just imagine the came asada, mustard se fairy, and siempre mismo la ventana amariua.

It's just as death had imagined, an endles sprawl of appearance in black stone glitter. In an outlandish suburb where the bad smell is jasmine, a nightingale sings upon what was once a rampart. As the drawn out rain falls, the stem's transparent, also the existence

PAUL HOOVER's poetry has appeared in Tri Quarterly, The novel Republic, and Common Knowledge. Editor of the anthology Postmodem American verse (Norton) and the literary magazine of recent origin American Writing he teaches at Columbia society Chicago. His new book, Totem and Shadow: novel aC Selected Poems, is just without from Talisman House.

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