Thursday, June 26, 2014

Bob Dylan Sleeping, new poems by Sean Enright

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On Not Dying At 28

                       [Or perhaps I will die at thirty?  Ezra Pound]

I’d written nothing. Two days later, I wed.
In eighteen months my own father was dead.
All I thought about back then was writing.
Or having written, I guess. It was exciting
To me, everything I hadn’t done at all.
When would I start?  My future looked full.
Often I sat there, imagining the movie: 
John Cusack would star, or I’d  play myself. Groovy.
We watched the news on honeymoon in Maine:
A man who stopped a tank was never seen again.

In the cabin my naked wife sat on the top bunk-bed.
She spread her legs, and steered my head.
Looking back, it seems only right
To have survived, if just for a night like that.
Now I’ve written some poems, at last.
They’ll exist until I’m dead, at least.
Yawn.  Look at me, tending my legend, 
In flagrante delicto. Elsewhere, headlines happened.

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