as a monument in
four expository paragraphs

another argument about poetry

Strange flowers, you say, an operatic

they-are-nothing of morning noon or in

the going-dark day. Just in the absence,

you say, when all the others stop they

come to something in the cracks of our

metallic puddles. A dream of tangles. A

load of penitential downspouts. So smart

to have been asleep, approaching the eye

invisibly taken for Terror or rude Joy,

dream’s bubble popping around the kids.

We looked past his fitful signal into an

oval gap but didn’t know how to get there.

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