ANNE CECELIA HOLMES


MODES OF LIVING I FAWN OVER BUT BRACE FOR WINTER

I want to be the type
to gun for things but it’s
not clear how to map
my progress. It feels like
standing outside a collapsing
factory and thinking about
Antarctic France. It’s like
moving through a doomed
sequence of going
to the movies without
compassion. There is a clot
in my central system.
Few things circle the way
I do when I’m being
a hurricane of love.
Today in a show
of bravery I will take
a tuning fork and annihilate
every masterpiece. I will
make a certain crescendo
as I translate history
into something worse.
 
 
 
 
INTRODUCING FOR THE LAST TIME

In the end I hope what’s sacred
stays buried and what’s ugly
gets its due. I know
there are promises strong
enough to withstand but if
you spin a stranger enough times
the symmetry becomes a drag.
Somewhere someone gets born
and it’s not okay at all.
What I’m saying is guarantees
have got me down. I’ve made
small repairs to most things
and still I’m a satellite full
of holes. When I begin
to recite from a broken globe
my face brings with it disaster,
a broken-down brand of joy.
When I descend into anything
I’ve invented a virtuous system.
You might ask is there a call
for distress and the answer is yes yes
yes.
 
 
 
 



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