Mary Bast

M a r y   B a s t

hanging

mind empty

of everything but purpose

how smoothly he ceased to hear 

and impossible what had to be done 

a bird with cocked head 

screamed a high pure 

sound, almost sing-song, 

by then it was too late, 

body untenanted, rising 

up and down like a yoyo

from “Incarnations of Burned Children”

by David Foster Wallace, Esquire, April 21, 2009

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