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Church of the Adagio
by Philip Dacey

PASCALIANA

            All men’s misfortunes spring from the single cause
             that they are unable to stay quietly in one room.
                                     Pascal, The Pensees

The place to go to is the place you’re at.
Though wheels wait, cultivate denying them.
This place is fat, fat, fat.

If you scoot, you’ll only see where you once sat
and be a long way from home.
The place to go to is the place you’re at.

Paris, say.  I think of places like that,
where all day I could je vous aime
and forget this place is beaucoup fat,

then I remember millions in their hut,
my place-poor bro and sis.  Mobility’s a dream.
Wake up.  Go to, be, where you’re at.

Of course, even if wheels are flat
or roads awash in weather, it’s still damn
hard to get to where you’re at,

though at least you don’t need a hat.
Local gods hide.  They want you to come
find them in that place you’re at.
It’s so thin, so nearly invisible, it’s fat, fat, fat.

 

 
 
 
 

 

 
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