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Poetry #372
(published March 6, 2008)
The Enviolate Three Generations
by Ray Succre
After his father's face he took, wore it by day
in blood and chance, and his scaped hilly brow
of bone and hairs was that same he saw when
young, on his father's every mood.

This casement of ours, it should be confessed
moves the reason of the blood at whim,
is less sturdy than old, but all this breeding
is in the land, and rakes at he backs of its
soddy cultivators.

It is unendurable how much famine could be made
if even for the adoption of one more impatience.

He is not impatient; his father was impatient.

The wind tips and roils its strands,
safe in its court until the inward spark
can be swept from the next man,
who then tumbles in his hollow down,
dumbly blown from the nooks on every street,
and from any house.

There is delight in this passing, for the world
is given order, over, sustenance,
and with us down we take all shames.

His father had taken all shames, and now the man
places that gone father's face on his new son,
and chews the bit, walking on land, watching
for slightest breeze.

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