Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Eggads, er, egads. . .

There was another egg in Ezra's cage when I came home from work. This one is almost completely round in shape. Very strange.

And egads, this is the poem I resorted to ILL to obtain. It's hard to justify the effort many people had to go to provide me with it:


The spring

her step

turned to

A.R. Ammons, Brink Road

I think we'd find more to discuss in this Ammons poem:


Death is very common but not,
I hear, 100% effective; one,

once, unjustly, I suppose, hung
up, downed, rose, a rising

that delivered death to plenitudes
in scatterings, swingings, stakes

of grubbed up flesh (set afire),
limbs, heads cut off, etc.: is

this a small price to pay for
something to believe in: nature

is just here, a lovely if careless
spread, and its dynamics, seen

to and smoothed out, can be
suggestive: otherwise, the fridge's

clean but for what we ourselves
devise: belief, at any cost,

serves life: let life do without.

Otherwise, I read fanfic. I feel no remorse.

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