chad sweeney

The Sentence

The bones of Marcel Duchamp
laid end to end
reach all the way

to the bottom of this hill
where a little slab of concrete
bridges one

obscurity to another
and Mr. Duchamp seems pleased
the way I’ve placed his jaw

in relation to the atlas
his wisdom teeth
commanding long sharp shadows

though it’s noon
(the midnight of day)
and we’ve nowhere to go

and the oblique syntax of bones
repeats its inquiry

in the language of the world