Empire of Time
An age has ended like the boxing of one’s ears.
Why not wait a while longer?
The cattle cars sit in a cypress stand
While we wait, I pull out a chair for you
you call it traitor and kick back your chair as you rise,
it all began with the word,
In the end, you reply,
My Speaking to You is a Song I Sing Softly
to the ash that yearns to take our names, to the rock
Where is the myth that will make this new?
The time of the word is nearly at an end. Its age was like a doll closing
a bearded lady, a jack in the box.
Even today, we can still catch its scent, a rawness like old leaves
of something undercooked.
But it all started not with words
Joseph Wiinikka-Lydon is currently a doctoral candidate at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. He has published poetry in 2River View and Cimarron Review, among others, and has lived and worked in several countries, including Turkey, Bosnia, and Kenya. contact
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