Wednesday, January 13, 2010


by Duane Locke Once when I observing a A dragonfly With a red segmented body And crimson flashes arising From his net-webbed silver wings Nibbling on something While his wire-thin legs gripped A brown stiff weed stem That leaned at an acute angle Towards the earth’s browned weeds. I thought of the transparency of my language When I spoke to myself About the dragonfly or anything else, And the non-transparency of my language When I spoke to others About the dragonfly Or spoke about anything else. I was slowly learning that discourse, Communication With another, the other, Was only a contingent possibility. As I grew older, I became more and more alone.

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