Saturday, March 26, 2016

We Have No Friend But Our Shadow

Finite existence makes me
More expensive. Poetry
Is living space for the unknown.
We weave a hopeful tapestry,

Wrote the weaving novelist
For her heroine to think.
He was the tallest man ever
And a burrowing owl in flight.

Fitly feed my driftwood fire.
I'm the last I left behind.
You think this is a bricolage?
I was the tallest man ever,

So tall I had to die young.
A boy, I walked with a cane.
I towered over telephone
Booths in Las Vegas museums.

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