Monday, August 11, 2008

From today's Poetry Daily, a very different kind of Bob Hickok poem:


Hands, the fit of them, to the neck. God's making

an end for the arm, murder, His, forgive me, my

pronoun, my rage, if in practice I lift them

to the window, morning's jet mirror, who, and what

you did, the cracked bell within, is not evil, but to ring it


Bob Hicok

Michigan Quarterly Review
Summer 2008

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