Christopher Dow
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Abandoned Ruins
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In the hour of our loneliness
We lie on beds of fire.
The sun sears our flesh
As red as the bloody-headed vulture
Waiting in the deadness
Of a stripped and withered
Willow in desert ruins.
Crumbling adobe blocks
Litter the clay foundations
With their shattered forms.
Once a town lived here
On the banks of this dried stream—
Willows shaded, fields flowered
Where now the baked lizard scuttles,
Where the wild and distant burro
Brazens the heated earth
In his aimless wanderings.
In the hour of our loneliness
We lie on beds of stone.
The moon hisses through empty windows,
Whispers vision to a white seduction
As bleached as the sand
On the banks of the turquoise pool,
The last of the stream
Of the life of this ruined hamlet.
Sagebrush strokes purple
Against the still pallor,
Calling for calm thought
On this verge of desert emptiness.
The breathless air
Winds the sound of legions
Of sand grating on sand,
Drowning the ruins in dry humor,
Grinding them inevitably down
To more of the same.
In the hour of our loneliness
We rise from beds of mystery
And seek the desert horizon,
Our emptiness burned, bleached,
Then ground by waves of sand
To the fine edge of here and gone.
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City of Dreams
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City of dreams
And tyrolean power—
Some day here
Space shuttles will
Surge to the sky
On flaming vapor trails,
Push upward
Until all that’s left
Is another star.
Rockets are so like
The Tower of Babel,
Bringing men together
As they reach for the heavens
In the language of science
And scattering them like stars.
Out on the prairie,
From a particular spot,
You can see
The seven skylines,
And the buildings
Rise like rockets
Of steel and mirror glass.
This is Space City,
Here on the prairie,
Though the structures’ base
Belies their space shapes.
Who wants to journey
Into the void with me?
Let’s take the shuttle
Bus downtown and look
At the rocket fields.
Let’s go inside
And wander through
Miniature universes
Of the social cosmos.
You can walk miles
Through blocks of buildings
And never feel a breath
Of fresh air on your face.
The mirror glass
Has exposed elevators.
If you stand close
Inside the elevator glass
You take off.
And if you stand close
Inside the mirror walls
You’re walking on air
Above the street.
If acrophobia possessed you
You’d fall right through the mirrors,
Plunge to the street below,
To be forgotten
As a breath of wind.
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Fall Flies
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Black speck on the wall—
Closer—Fly. Fat fly.
Buzz from the left, at the window
To sunlight and green early fall.
Three fat early fall flies.
With no malice, I
Shake a finger in the air
One inch over the wall-bound one.
Don’t fly, I say in my mind. Just
Let me shake my finger at you.
It does not fly. I shake.
I turn to those others,
Silhouetted against nature,
All fat and easy to squash.
One crouches, the next buzzes
A bit in the air, the third
Walks up the left window molding,
Buzzing, under a shimmering thread.
Another thread. Another. Spiderweb.
My eyes range up past the crawling fly,
To the upper corner of the window.
Over the body of a fly, a spider
Hunches. The fly is fresh and fat.
The spider touches and sucks.
Fat fly. The others buzz
In sporadic bursts against the window.
The one on the wall lobs itself
Through the air to the glass,
Thumping a landing on that surface.
The world a movie at its feet, it waits
In early fall’s dappled warmth,
A fat fly with other fat flies,
Waiting for the freedom of night,
When bright panes do not
Mesmerize with illusions of escape,
When cool drafts lend
A ride to winged creatures
Through a world of darkness
And no transparent barriers.
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Mechanics of the Technological Renaissance
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Mechanics of the technological renaissance—
Chrome dizzily spinning sunwise.
Tamarin run wild, transplanted
Oceans, continents, to a heritage
Of celluloid, and solenoid dreams short
The circuit of cosmic indifference for all
Their worth, leaving them unceasingly cold.
Man about to take charge of man decides
His true destiny and chooses his own path.
Volumes of philosophy number thousands.
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Pencil
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Put me in your hand.
Even that small
I am the brand
That feeds the fires
Of the wars of man.
I am the lave
Of the fallen fortunes
Attending that knave.
From his blank birth
To his hollow grave,
I fill each white
Space with his motion,
And in the night
He takes my form
To the outward sight.
I am all he wrought—
Greater than the wheel
For his every thought
Revolves around me.
To him I taught
A certain permanence—
A lesson that my
Own transience
Could give a voice
To his conscience.
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There Is a Map
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There is a map
Of our love
Here on this page.
See—
The paper is torn.
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