Whatever bird one sees
by dusk its every bright color is dun.
Tilting condors sail above the Andes
wingspread dark against the sun.
Far from plain, most truths elude
our knowing, representation’s dense
fabric muddies what first was nude,
confuses false starts with dead ends.
Consider the mischievous goddess Luna
interweaving the heartstrings of sane
householders, broadcasting DNA
between neighbors, seeding a lean
child in a plump brood. Fatherhood dual
yet undetected scotches any duel.
from In the American Grain
by William Carlos Williams
And bitter as the thought may be that Tenochtitlan, the barbaric city, its people, its genius wherever found should have been crushed out because of the awkward names men give their emptiness, yet it was no man’s fault. It was the force of the pack whom the dead drive.
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