Poetry Month’s Last
Day Fragment
Of days marked by verses sung
across clocks and rulers
songs to celebrate all our gold
variously graded, finely ground
against boot marked hardwood desks
for eons of crumpled yellow tablets
and shavings of graphite hissing
anti-insouciant intensities coded
and set loose on verbal metronomes
calibrated to cross one another
without ever touching, ticks
and tocks bending past to future,
out to in:
Per tons
of crocus blossoms
dried by a million days of salty sun
wet sanding moonlit nights
held in dewdrops magnifying
dark and light within, without.
Defying all catalogs of geometry
devised to encase the dimensions
of experience without boundaries--
that world poems dance round
on fleet-footed fitting words
lifted beyond inner or outer
encumbrances, imagined or fictitious,
frictionless finally, we hope.
JH
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