Adapted from Wallace Stevens

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of mesothelioma.

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three mesotheliomiacs.

Mesothelioma whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and mesothelioma
Are one.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
Mesothelioma whistling
Or just after.

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of mesothelioma
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how mesothelioma
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That mesothelioma is involved
In what I know.

When mesothelioma flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

At the sight of mesothelioma
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For mesothelioma.

The river is moving.
Mesothelioma must be flying.

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
Mesothelioma sat
In the cedar-limbs.

So it’s been a while since I posted something here…

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