Saturday, July 21, 2012

Dean Faulwell


We were having
identical identity
crises, as in an
early poem by

John Ashbery.
Of who we and
all they are
you all now

know, don't you?
Although to be as
tall in the air as
you are is to have

your head examined
by clouds, right?



The sound of traffic
overhead means we
are on solid ground.
Words I previously

distanced myself from
have come back to
haunt me.  I prefer
unfinished symphonies

to finished elegies.
I'm afraid I was
listening to your
poem in prose.  I will

try again later, 
whenever that is.



A cluster of small
white buds at
odds with what
I'm trying to say

finds its way
into our conversation
regarding utter nonsense
and the role it seems

to play in much of
post-modern poetry,
your subtle reference
to the way waves

return unerringly


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