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First Line: Your voice comes to me, george, on the winter night
Last Line: What in god’s name must I do to get you back?
Subject(s): Camus, Albert (1913-1960)


Your voice comes to me, George, on the winter night
In the faint mazy stars, a murmur of hesitant light
In the air frozen solid, it seems, from here to Maine.
Lonely and late I made pancakes, awful pancakes,
And ate them with watery syrup and grease and with
Love of myself when young, with cognac in a glass,
And with cigarettes, the smoke coiling reflected
In the black window. What are you saying, George?
I strain to hear. Are you as smart and percipient
As you were, can you tell me what I almost know
In your words not mine as you used to, words
So French and accurate I thought Descartes
And Camus must live in you as well as Tolstoy
And Kropotkin, words of fierce loyalties and loves
For beautiful ideas and men and women? Tell me,
George, for Michael your boy's sake, where are you,
When will we see you, have your bones become dust,
Is your voice dust in your throat? Oh, let the thin
Dawn come now with its fishblood on the horizon,
Its icy fog. You are the lovingest memory in this
Rattling brain that shakes off its synapses like an old
Dog climbing out of a cold brook. George, George,
What in God's name must I do to get you back?


Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA
98368-0271, www.cc.press.org




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