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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor and edit circulars on poetics and composition, I'm anatomizing the prosody of Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

20130912

September Twelfth, 2001


by X.J. Kennedy

Two caught on film who hurtle
from the eighty-second floor, 
choosing between a fireball
and to jump holding hands, 

aren't us. I wake beside you, 
stretch, scratch, taste the air, 
the incredible joy of coffee
and the morning light. 

Alive, we open eyelids
on our pitiful share of time, 
we bubbles rising and bursting
in a boiling pot.




Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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