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From the Fall, 2014 issue of The Antioch Review.



by Eric Weinstein

       You mightn't think it, but Sloppy is a beautiful reader 
       of a newspaper. He do the Police in different voices.
	       —Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend

Halo halo halo 
                in the body's hive a virus 
       dreams of cheap 
no (laughs) democracy 
       archangels in Arkansas 
                & a hospital room 
       for improvement. Suffers 
allusions of grandeur, hail 
       lucina, lucidae, half 
                born lunatic—
       You don't believe that. 
       —No, only a vacuum 
                cleaner than you'd suspect 
       resisting arrest, give it 
a rest, cardiac, our rest, 
       you have the right 
                to silent remains 
       eternal, night eternal, 
night to night, tonight 
       recall: no moon 
                no stars are visible from 
       Hello, operator? No one is here. 
No one is here. 
       Gabriel Gabriel 
                twelve winged Gabriel—
       many I'd Gabriel—
radio in the night wakes us, 
       human voices wake us, 
                did you say you're hearing 
       voices? Concern over 
repeat, suspect fleeing 
       on foot, over, 
                by car, over, 
       by sea, over, who 
by water who 
       by fire who 
                by beast who 
       by plague by 
a virus incubates
       a virus, ink blots 
                out man whom I have 
       created from the face of 
the land will not yield to you: 
       next door a fetus incubates 
                & Gabriel ushers him 
       in the sky the stars 
go out one by one 
       last chance, tell me 
                 what you know you won't 
       if you know anything give me 
a call, the dial tone 
       of voice, vox humana, & reed 
                 stops waving, the sea of reeds 
       stops waving, nothing moves: 
Halo hallow hollow hello 
       hello, I am here. I was always 
                here. Let us cross, 
       planks & nails, a ship. 
In the body's hive a virus dreams 
       of ships. Of ships & bottles. 
                A wall on its right hand & on its 
       left behind, it said to me 
hither, too, shall you come, 
       but no further—
                static drowned the rest. 
       I never said that. 
The cathedrals of the lungs 
       expel water, echo, oh, 
                the organs working 
       together now, the hum 
of the night's machinery, 
       the neighboring ventilator, Gabriel's 
                insect wings, radio, distant stars 
       laboring, dark eve laboring, 
evening harboring ships, 
       the walls all washing out 
                in blue & red, sirens, 
       hushed voices, parents, 
the voice amniotic, 
       the organic polyphonic 
                chords, the umbilical 
       chords in the nave 
of hearts oh 
       of hearts oh 
                of hearts.

WeinsteinEric Weinstein’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in AGNI, Alaska Quarterly Review, Bat City Review, The Believer, Court Green, Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, The Iowa Review, The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, The Yale Review, and elsewhere. He lives in New York City.





© 2014 The Antioch Review