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Poetry

The death of one god is the death of all.
—Wallace Stevens

When you left it was as if a glacier retreated,
As if the ice tonnage, which rasped, scraped, and scoured for ages,
Diminished in a moon’s single phase to a trickle of meltwater.

I live in the aftermath—till, eskers, erratics, cirques, exposed bedrock.
I live amid the givens of the aftermath because the aftermath is all one is ever given.

Moss darkened the far side of a granite boulder. Pines.
Then a hardwood forest filled in the valley, which burned and grew again,
Which burned and grew again, which burned and grew again.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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