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thomas glass

Dan Thomas-Glass


Three Poems

The vast-

The vast-
ness of
light to
look through
staring
at im-
agined
chants bro-
ken for
bell-tolls
our sup-
ple de-
sires or
other-
wise &
the ways
we each
charmed for
the lives
of us
on grey
mornings
without
noons to
end them
if sound
could float
spaces
as a
trace of
lovelorn
or ech-
o for
the ways
we played
at per-
son nei-
ther doc-
tor this
was not
any
house as
the minds
lapsed like
glowy
grit chomp-
ing at
setting
sun ug-
ly all-
iter-
ation
your life
setting
type just
mazes
of drow-
sy par-
agraphs
to in-
dent bells
ringing
again
someone
calls from
anoth-
er room
upset
not to
find to-
pic sen-
tences.



Rude bits cubed

abrupt prescience: tomorrow precisely the same.

prescience: same precisely the abrupt tomorrow.

tomorrow abrupt prescience: same the precisely.

precisely the: tomorrow same prescience abrupt.

the same tomorrow: abrupt precisely prescience.

same tomorrow precisely abrupt prescience: the.



Postcards to J. Clover

             or town in fit of starting
in a house (not rubble) slung with accidents
leaking song of brick-sat guitar slums
always with the same first chord
‘have I told you about how
I will stop breathing?’

             In the coming year
             each of your apologies will be beautiful

The banister (though
there are no stairs) to be papered
in postcards of limpid pink stuccos
from which dead friends & new lovers
will send wishes for their here-ness

             I am in Chicago
             at the month of helmeted lions

(trains are only bombed in movies or London or Madrid)

You probably don’t spend your Saturdays
reading poems with so much to un-box
the walls are to sky as cling-wrap
or next to a poster advertising a former employer

Your move-ins were never metonyms
for all you dug through dust
to ground pasts
rewritten

(Thumbs down to the librarian’s blind tango?)

             Dear friend France is fantastic

             Dear friend I’m sick of France

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