Jon Thompson

New Poems From the USA


Fathom we cannot the oldest dream        gone is the
commonwealth of sorrow. Now the measure of an unequal
economy is clear as the winter light flooding these
windows & these my wooden floors. The scintillation, the
plain beauty, has pain in it What wonder’s here, that Bread
of Life should come/To feed Dead Dust? Dry Dust eate
Living Bread? Melancholia of empire presses down; that
wonder should have this reign at all. Flourishing on the
margins of maps, the future of lost prophecies works out
here & away. Unknown, the rites of atonement are
unknown. The mind wants to look away, to not see, what is
done in its name. How to hear the voices? Someone,
something, is always missing.