Mark DuCharme

 

Echo


Doom lives every-
where outside—
Outside the space
Of dream

Where sensors
Catch
Us faceless in
Their ahistoric grip

& Music from
La Strada
Plays
Quietly in a corner

Deflecting a
Reflective
Discourse
While the reading

Poet dreams
The poem. It hurts
Like love, not
Dream— not

The doom that smothers
Breath
Of memory in
Emptiness—

An emptiness we
Hide
Even from the
Screen