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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


they say with certainty,
another one will come.
A hard acorn in the heavens.
A piece of flint or sulphur,
a mile or two big.
A rock thrown by the black gods
of the asteroid belt,
the hard leather of creation.
Coming like a wild horse,
a panther climbing to the zenith,
unseen until it strikes.

And then dear cities of Columbus,
Sandusky, Rome and London,
all the junkyards, gardens,
Sodoms and Gomorrahs,
will no longer light the night.
Toward the moon,
a dark fog will ascend,
and the remarkable children,
the magnolia, the violin,
will no longer be seen or heard.
The earth will cover itself with dust,
with a shroud of mourning,
and our prayers will be vapor,
rain like everyone’s tears.

And we will no longer worry
about the final dawn,
silent widows,
orphaned children.
Symphonies will hearken
in the distance,
like sad bells.
Only starlight will record
what was here.

All the poems will be burned,
the woman will no longer
call to her lover,
and no one will wonder
to what purpose,
God has made himself.
A wind calling over bare rock
and shorn precipice.
The ocean silent for unknown ages,
until small seeds of spring come back,
and a new wakefulness begins.

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