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Infernal glow. Scarlet ellipse mid-drift
in the still-swelling snow / shock of blood
in a milky eye. Here, things go to shit
in predictable ways. Ways we love,
until we don’t. Until they don’t. Jude,
her arms obscured in tendril’d sleeves
of flame, in ink & iconography,
tends. Here, everyone & -thing is linked:
as kith, thick w/ kin. The candles, briefly,
an order. They make of morning a fin,
a folly. They’re kindred. They kindle.
They let the hagiography begin.
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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.