I am a cowry girl, a marine biologist to be exact. The 8-hour move-

ment started in the United States in 1884. Feeling more and more.

Gave birth. Took up the question. 8 hours shall be the norm. Marx:

Slavery disfigured a part of the republic. Labor with a white skin

cannot emancipate itself where labor with a black skin is branded.

The time named. Endorse the same. Half of the same. More pro-

foundly. Therefore be considered a synonym.

Dear Emily,

For poetry—I have you. One need not be a House—One need not be a

Nation or a Master for that matter. Delicate and beautiful, common

in rich mossy woods, in pairs, we live.  We are crimson-pink, partic-

ularly in the mountains. The rough terrain is not visible to many, but

somewhat green and fatigued, demilitarized! A nod from far away is

hollow. True men—How shall I greet them? Nation building is kind

and generous. It is common to decline it. Emily, Shall I – bloom?

Yours, Twin Flower   

Your message to me:

Forgetting is lovely and Father’s well is bottomless. Freud says: the

way in which national tradition and the individual’s childhood mem-

ories are formed might turn out to be entirely analogous.

Indeed, a higher authority can shift the aim of the resistance to

memory. Madness may be a form of resistance. Forgetting is lovely

and Father’s well is bottomless. In order to remember an incident

painful to national feeling, a lower psychic agency must resist the

higher authority. However, it is against the Law. Tea and false mem-

ories. Which is lovelier? Colony or neocolony? The shift in the aim is

minor. Forget something then remember something else. The loveli-

est of all is the unconscious—it is lively. In defense of nation’s par-

amnesia, tea must be served at all times. Migration, my nation! 

Come the marrow-hours when he couldn’t sleep,

the boy river-brinked and chorded.

Mud-bedded himself here in the root-mesh; bided.

Sieved our alluvial sounds—

Always the story-man lights lard-lamps in a circle and tells.

A boy scrapes and ever-graves for likeness with a stick.

Two girls croodle corn-songs cane-songs back and forth unbroken.

Once-bent bodies leap (in chorus) leg and whirl.

Hadn’t he come to us out from County Home

cleaved to a caul-swaddle

cloth (of coarse croker-sack weave)

he all the time plucked and wrung?

I plugged my poem into a manhole cover
That flamed into the first guitar,
Jarred the asphalt and tar to ash,
And made from where there once was
Ground a sound to stand on.

I stared out into the darkness
For some sign of the cold consoler,
That perched spinning
Night nurse who tends

To the sleeping sun
Destined to rise irresponsibly
Over the counties
Of Kings and Queens.

The same motion used
To make angels in the snow,
When standing
Is a signal of distress:
A frantic wave of the shipwrecked
To a distant, passing savior.