Pedro Trevino-Ramirez
Meditation on the Present Content
Today, this far, it is hard to visualize the Potomac at Quantico,
where, jeweled and spiderwire spun, footed steady on rotdock
under the moon at 1am, we talked art like amateurs;
fractured rods on driftwoodsnags
and I cut my hand, bloodless clean, on the line.
Little changes in perception, but I suppose I must die
to feel this, make it coherent. My God, Ezra! The post-
-composed era is inconsistent! That is aside: Pound is
useless, dusted,
wherein this far, now, only North Mountain speaks,
from crag, sediment, of learning and logical decay-
today, Ezra feels. He may very well be hooking
catfish from where we, unimagined, discussed ladies
and, though I was downwind of comprehension, condoms:
why they are demonskin, never trust them, never.
This far, I know miseries of desert autumns, the silence
of river basins. There is a stir of dirt. I am there.
I am always there and, off the old dockboards,
highway agonies,
you are there also. It is easy to see that, today, today.
I suppose I must die to feel that again,
hear a conversation on tits, thighmeat,
from a man blue by moon. Coherent.
