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Snapshots of the Epic


We do not like some things and the hero
   doesnít.

   Marianne Moore

Here the hero tries his eyes
after his winterís sleep.
Here apple blossoms
pelt the moat
between passing mallards. Here
the hero recites his dreams
into the sink. He knows his fate
by rote. Today,
he will burn
his rivalís vineyards
to the ground, and steal
his wife and chattel,
his barrels of ale. Here
the hero splits his lips
in half with a single finger
to cue his lover.
He makes the sound
of mallards landing softly
on the water.
The gods are near,
he whispers, or else,
itís father. Outside
there are horses.
The gates are down.
The mowers lean upon
their rakes and sickles.
By now, he knows his life
is long. He looks around,
and he sees nothing
he will not own.

-Gregory Lawless (Contrary)





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