Bill Berkson

Two Poems

With Impunity

Light enters the retina by way of the surge
Of heavy morning traffic down Upper Market

The province, the region, the sect
The zone of last clouds in which is spotted the Final Face

Trickle in culverts beyond
— “This call ends now” —

A bird suffocates before you know it
Eurasia of the Abstract, Russian poetry edgy

And green like a chambray work shirt
Snippets in a mineshaft, so dispersed, hurtful

The Cloud of Knowing

                                Peri hupsus, the poetry of hype?

“From then on, I knew I could sell people anything,”
the artist lately known as Jeff Koons beamed,
his juvenilia a success parading baked goods door to door.

And for those who can’t or won’t – it hadn’t occurred to them,

nor had “anything” ever come their way.

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