Solarchan
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poetry
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>>[208](/thread/poetry#208) # Our City is Guarded by Automatic Rockets by William Stafford Breaking every law except the one for Go, rolling its porpoise way, the rocket staggers on its course; its feelers lock a stranglehold ahead; and-rocking-finders whispering “Target, Target,” back and forth, relocating all its meaning in the dark, it freezes on the final stage. I know that lift and pour, the flick out of the sky and then the power. Power is not enough. Bough touching bough, touching … till the shore, a lake, an undecided river, and a lake again saddling the divide: a world that won’t be wise and let alone, but instead is found outside by little channels, linked by chance, not stern; and then when once we’re sure we hear a guide it fades away toward the opposite end of the road from home; a world that goes wrong in order to have revenge. Our lives are an amnesty given us. There is a place behind our hill so real it makes me turn my head, no matter. There in the last thicket lies the cornered cat saved by its claws, now ready to spend all there is left of the wilderness, embracing its blood. And that is the way that I will spit life, at the end of any trail where I smell any hunter, because I think our story should not end or go on in the dark with nobody listening.
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