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April 14 2003


Poem la Rumsfeld

By Gary Corseri (corseri@mindspring.com)

Oh my goodness gracious!
Death is what is unknown
until it is known.
It is not known
by the unknown
(who are dead)
but by the known,
you and I, say,
who know the unknown
even though they don't know.
Death is like a perhaps hand
which is at your throat
in your perhaps dream
where you are standing
before a crowd (like this,
like this one, say)
and it is choking you
and squeezing everything known
out of you into the unknown
which will soon be known.
And that's all that we know.