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Two Poems from Book of Eumaeus


Christopher Casamassima

21.16



He did wave, Vimognio, so all those trials so

Ural so Ramini. Hands, and arms, and Pietro Monti,

carved heads of you, Piacenza, Acro of mere Arbeti.

And Pietà, sap the violet Caludius, mark Calpe

and refrain. Don’t sap the verb Josephus Jean you

mere watt, Psalms of a nether-poem. The only latch

he sees disarms, Iti, and be gone amid the fire Po, martyr

for the Delos, and repose and know Canzoni

as a distant vane. Vane, Cosimo, you go down Cloux

and accuse you showoff stout, Leghorn the matron. Como

is a joke and a clown Galeazzo, help me, Apollo, held

me a salt tear like a fawn to Euclid. Danube of the Cyprus,

Constanza, heroic, husband, and wife, so conspicuously

Magnus. Adam, Adige, lead us in joyous anguish, seize Arluno

what is meant to Rhine the life you Okhos never. Leo, elusive

and honest, he is Vico, and the Tiber a mere ficus. Acates,

moot star of feign appearance, while he went hurrying

Viterbo on the sea, Sardus, born unjointed faux.




21.163


The first eye grew Plutarch in their ears, sudden

weapons, Lebanon, it’s your fault the Caspian is

cascading. What strains forth from the faces, Danes,

slipped and broke their aura, Donau, the streak of

the meatsane Jacopo. The architext of a new Italian,

cinematic Lodi, Ghiera D’Adda, who, presuppose you

mind out of Trozzo, one should not suppose so

suddenly, and it rains the second Sangallo, Santa

Maria del Fiore, Santa Maria Nuova, rains.

Sansovino you Lux, a documentary history, Pera,

in the middle of the night. Where did you get

this Suspiria? Who sold the rubric Brolio? It

waned, but not in the vane of an Azov, he was

bodily mutilated. And the Colle, weight of Diogenes

a singular Oxus. Decree, and the night wanes. Rhodes,

and the sky writes Porus, Nonius, Venus, and sleeps.