Tuesday, 14 June 2011

A love song

Let us go then, you and I,
where the evening is playing out
inside the hollow radioactive pile
the giant lobster boiling in the dried-out pot;
Let us through this certain cornered street
with stuttering chirp-and-tweet
of Geiger swipes to Sleep Motel
and the Sushi Restaurant
with its radioactive oysters in their shells:
the tweets and chirps seem hollow
as the hideous
aftertaste whose tangy metal smell
leads us to an overwhelming question . . .
just what is a becquerel? -
Oh, do not ask!

The Yellow Sea returns
the sky with re-fused hue
this end of dazed!
The patient has no watchword.


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