Poem for The New Yorker

Wikipedia Poem, No. 997

  gothic piping 
which is world
          embarrassing themselves year over year, bertolt.
     
frequently seemingly 
the 
       night of iron and i can tell you,
       heather,
          in my advice to 
  cross 
      today
  and that
quietly seemingly 
        obviously 
the world is
embarrassing — 
      there were 
     loves missing which is to say watching the world
embarrassing its wisdom.

john 
might 
  of 
      scandalized the breakfast rollicking which is 
the night 
of iron and loudspeaker social 
modernization.

        oh, 
harkening gold — ceiling walls and floor! — 
          the only thing was 
       loving which is 
only theater
in 
  my 
     advice to you had to 
     be there you had to 
cross 
      today
          and 
you, it's 
hopeless,
terrance. 
 
         occasionally the 
       same sonnet 
spins steady gold
  the only 
things gone and gotten.

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