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How the car radio carols pushed against the long dusk
and the bumpers of clouds glowed teacup gold—
The doll's leg twisted and out it popped,
exquisite souvenir. Long and unfolded, I was
dense with signs,
on offer, is there any point to the gift
of these woven bolts of consciousness?
Here, says one to the other, Here I am—
Yes there you are. But that is no cause
to disarrange the weather map, for violent elbowing
of all that has been patterned aside.
If we were giants who played with little humans
and their little toys, then—
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Reflecting on three monumental works of modernism—James Joyce’s Ulysses, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—a hundred years on.
Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.