A Poem in the Margins of Brodsky When the generation, O when the generation and the consequence Construct the Thing, that the night before the day and evening past Were just as much the responsibilities of Sun. We have made horizons Into hills we picnic on and confuse all things for others: so reality is Dreamed, our consciousness mowed lawns. A natural state unnaturally Founded but deemed the same. What is Abyss? Why, This. A Poem in the Margins of Stef Pixner Chaos comes In and takes it All: The order, The love, The things I want to stay, And keeps them For itself....