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“Although things vanish, are what mark our vanishing,
we still hold on to them – ballast against the updraft
of oblivion – as I hold on to this umbrella in a world of rain,

of heavy wet greens and grays dissolving into a new
atmosphere, a sort of underwater dulled electric glow
off everything, the air itself drowning in it, breath

thickening, growing mold. Yesterday I felt the smell
of grass greeting me as across a great distance, trying
to tell me some good thing in an underglaze of memory.

Some forgotten summer trying to speak its piece. It is
the way of things and it never stops, never calls a halt
this knocking and dismantling, this uprooting, cutting cut

and digging down, so tall oak and honey locusts are
laid low and drop to earth like felled cattle, shaking
the ground we’ve taken a stand on as if it were a steady

establishment, a rock of ages to outface ruin itself, not
the provisional slippery dissolving dissolute thing it is –
which we have against all the evidence set our hearts on.”

– Eamon Grennan, “Steady Now”

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