125: Assembly by Christian Wiman


It may be Lord our voice is suited now

only for irony, onslaught, and the minor hierarchies of rage.

 

It may be that only the crudest, cruelest transformations touch us,

gauzewalkers in the hallways of a burn ward.

 

I remember a blind man miraculous for the sounds of his mouth,

every bird rehearsed and released for the children to cheer.

 

Where is he now, in what icy facility or sunlit square,

blackout shades and a brambled mouth, singing extinctions?

 

 

The author’s work can be found in the volume, Every Riven Thing.

Think about how the poem made you feel. What imagery did you picture with the author’s words? Did you feel a sense of despair or fatalism in his prose?

May you live out another beautiful poem in the collection of your life today, and we’ll see you again tomorrow.

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