2006-08-31 / Editorial

Artificial Respiration

By Craig Watson

A shot rang out; let's communicate. No form, no thought, that's clear. Every story betrays its teller. As if we could possess the way we die. An adjective visualizes its prey. Names clot perception. This may be how we know we're alive In the comfort of a blank canvas. Now you can write that biography The one without the pronouns or A mirror in which you can't see yourself Only what's behind you. Memory is the birthright of longing: A crime of passion and luxury, That certainty disproportionate to its own shadow.

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