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The Returning Dead
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    Each night I make a drink and wait for them
    They have become the day's concluding news,
    Installments from a world without anthems
    Or children, unfocusing eyes

    A question that repeatedly rejects
    My easy terms. They are ones who believed
    And acted in the narrow and select
    Ways handed them, while ordinary lives

    Ran on without interruption
    Or bad pictures, as though nothing had changed
    Change is the one unanswerable question
    Of these faces. The world can rearrange

    Itself repeatedly, but these remain
    The same, silent in everything they lack;
    That's what they've come to, in places with names
    Like Afghanistan, Iraq,

    And this is the way it happens: the words
    Are old - mother, father, home - and will catch
    Surrounding currents in the slow absurd
    Descending will of any river etched

    Out of a landscape history refines
    To myth. The TV blanks between
    Segments, but every static face defines
    Itself, holds stubbornly its private scene

    Fixed, publicly, as we are led
    Back to that little negative whose lack
    Is each of us, staring the staring dead,
    Leaning, sometimes like grief itself; then straightening back.

-Wyatt Prunty


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