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Postmodern Village
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In Fern Hall
by D. Thomas Zimmerman


When I was hung and sappy under the Snapple shows and radio
played Rush, limbic fading as the day was long
and incomprehensible, I stood and was moved by a Bob Dylan
song and thought of ferns growing on a hill and aye
as the whisk was e, and the swallows that smacked
the window added to the pile
of scat that stacked hog high,

and I'd be happy to see those nice young men
in their clean-white coats who were coming
to take me away, when I was sappy and hung
as the day is thang. The passionfruit juice
packages sagged from the freezer door, and the air
that glistened on the freezer door was as dapper
as the ding is dong, and I thaw

Aibo, yappy and electronic-animated as long
as his batteries held strong. There old Rick
the fairy combed his dingle-berries and rimmed
the mic in nether places for as long as the song
was wrong, and the amps pumped out the kareaoke
easy under the ample blows,

and I was queen of hapless clowns
that climbed the walls all dread-head day
and the swallows short-stacked high
and pancakes IHOP syrup-shined like my soul in a tree.