A Sonata for Four Hands, II

The lights in the shades were lit,
The bulb became
An empty symbol waiting
Like the fixed idea
Above a comic book Mickey. Outside,
Clouds connived to create obscure messages:
Here’s a giraffe.

A male lion has a mane.
Imagination’s a ridiculous art.
She was clearly a member
Of the fiasco survivor’s club
The living often belong to.
There a simple name meant, simply,
A name. No allegory. No

Discursive meaning.
Just experience. No interpretation
Possible, nor necessary.
Condense to seven stanzas
A particulate world. Draw a picture
Of flesh engineered
As parts of a whole. The pills

On the floor had rolled under the sofa.
The wheel begins its if only turning.
It had never stopped.
This is life’s bargain that motion
Is hope. Morning fog,
Come back again. You will dream
Of this. Undoubtedly.

Mary Jo Bang


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