Monday, June 29, 2020


poet, they say.
Reciter of

bald fact. Giddy
babbler. He
hears them. They

want him to
do something
he can't, to

speak what they
call great truths.
His madness can't

see large things,
only the small
matters -- dirt

on his hands,
the long lay
of light in

later afternoon,
the sweetness of
the autumn grasses.

Such are what
he knows; such is
what he can say.

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