Norman Dubie Poems

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February: The Boy Breughel

The birches stand in their beggar's row:
Each poor tree
Has had its wrists nearly
Torn from the clear sleeves of bone,

The Czar's Last Christmas Letter: A Barn In The Urals

You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk
That last holiday, for five days and nights

He stumbled through Petersburg forming

Of Politics, & Art

for Allen

Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula

Her Monologue Of Dark Crepe With Edges Of Light

Mistress Adrienne, I have been given a bed with a pink dresser
In the hothouse
Joining the Concord Public Library: the walls and roof are

South Boston Morning

Very pragmatic closets of falling water,
bath and sewer, complex
dwellers eating black bread,

For Transtromer

In the cold heavy rain, through
its poor lens,
a woman


The General's men sit at the door. Her eyes
Are fat with belladonna. She's naked
Except for the small painted turtles

Behind The Old Soldiers' Hospital

Steam banks chugging out the brick autoclave
under the laundry room, screams rising up chutes
while the sergeant's leg is sawed off above the long sock.

The Pennacesse Leper Colony For Women, Cape Cod

The island, you mustn't say, had only rocks and scrub pine;
Was on a blue, bright day like a blemish in this landscape.
And Charlotte who is frail and the youngest of us collects

Elegy To The Sioux

The vase was made of clay
With spines of straw
For strength. The sunbaked vase

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