I took a real good look
at the whole station/But I couldn’t
find a trace of the massacre(1933)—Semezdin Mehmedinovic
That he is an I. Lyrical in the sensitization. Not quite a lamination,
but a murmur. His cheekpiece leans against windrows’ chill
as trainloads cross America. He holds these moments in a sad imbroglio,
as if everything has already fallen, shards of the fragile workbench
reverently lifted up. An émigré lives nowhere (he
has no doorknob) and everywhere; seeping into crackerjacks, haunting
the gapping in our Great Emunctory. This vastness and the simultaneous
smart arm that holds all and holds nothing in the extravagance
of its metallic body bag. No easting occurs. Everywhere is glasshouse.
Vanishing pointsman. Never a homecomer, here, eventual for us.