Canto CCCXXXII

A poem is a slender shred of paper
twirling through the slender thermo currents,
almost invisible amongst the capers

of all those hooting hordes, those heaving torrents
of bodies filling up the stadium.
It snags on a wire fence with flitty patience,

awaits the bedrock of a human palm.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 29, 2012 @ 00:15:29

    A good poem should subtle and enigmatic.
    An international sports event with competitors drawn from all over the world should be loud and garish.

    Some comparisons just don’t work.

    Reply

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