Alan Botsford
Ah (says the poet), all this growing to do in these gestures of balance… As they make themselves felt again in the rounds You’ve been making, past all regret, Beyond the well of sorrow and hope, As they climb the stairway up the center Of your heart, it’s then that the wordbeats–Echoing like footfalls in your forehead Where the sharp pain announces itself Briefly, for just a moment, before Descending once more into memory–Tap out the messages you’re a vessel for, An instrument for the music you hear Somewhere in the foreground, the drumming In the ear that says to you:
From the street to the ivory tower comes the deal, realing and wheeling, not of ‘poetry’–but of communing selves by poetic justice where swirling in and around and through each other word for word, context within context, are the world’s spirits distilled to a new form. When the moon is free-est, the tales are tallest, when tales are tallest, plots are thickest, when plots are thickest, the living and the dead have some business together, whose transactions, artfully overheard, remind you to Keep on loving What you would love, where you would.
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