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This poem is taken from PN Review 177, Volume 34 Number 1, September - October 2007.

Two Poems David C. Ward

No Place

It's hard to fathom anymore
with no more news from nowhere.
Quiet nostalgia is a frail reed to justify
lives lived to the rhythm of tv dinners
and traffic reports. The verities of weather
trouble us only on video while our lives
seal us up with air-borne mites and moulds.
Where did all these lung ailments come from
anyway? The pine scented fresheners
don't seem to work and wearied
by the ersatz sublime desperate measures
are required. At least by some.

                                 Poor heart: no more Aeolian
strings humming the hyperbolic ether, a dynamo
gorgeously electrifying us in all our struggles

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