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June 2, 2011 in Poets At Work



Are we in the last days?
We, here, not far from the temple of anachronisms,
is time welling up out
of a natural spring with us trying to catch all
we can catch in our hats?
It is a perfect day in November, but it might
be the day of Chronos
doing his eternal thing, leaving us to do ours.
Inquire of yourself:  why
the despair?  Why the migraines?  If you were expecting
this poem to be a pearl,
you may want a refund.  Me?  I’m just my own bones, my
own cloth.  I’m a compressed
sort of concubine, growing my parts into something
which may or may not rise,
but will most certainly burn.  All of my moods suit me
fine and, while I do notreflect the light as I used to,
I still burn in it.


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