Poets
for Robert Dana
A bombed oration tickled me.
Clinked flutes doled out
pointed flirtations.
A contour of life, poetry,
something to shade a body in,
or certainly to illuminate
an otherwise dusty path.
We yowl into it, wait for our own voice.
We chisel ourselves
to death.
We write our way into a shaky grace.
We watch, we listen, we wait in
the corner of a gorgeous room.
ER
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