Norman Dubie

(1945 / United States / Barre, Vermont)

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Best Poem of Norman Dubie

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,
These icy trees
Are hanging by their thumbs
Under a sun
That will begin to heal them soon,
Each will climb out
Of its own blue, oval mouth;
The river groans,
Two birds call out from the woods

And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill; then, he runs,
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush, he shakes
It twice, and as he turns
For the woods, the blood in the snow

Looks like the red fox,
At a distance,...

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Cantor, Frege & Gödel

Loosening spiders across the inert baritone
of transfictional time,
he describes the exact absence
of moment in equilibrium,

a beehive of rotating universes,
devising space like a plate
of spaghetti, white
in white sauce, a priori

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