August, New
Jersey
The spirit
of the poet had passed
His humanity
as a standing reserve
Was some
resonant representation
Of the
mathematical course of love
A distilled
omen
The impurities
left to the airs
Specks like
stars against the black
Mere appearances
Of cordial
depth
I escaped
the perfect solitude
That had
sought me
Wanted me
thinking alone
In the high
desert winds of Texas
No muse to
listen
See as I got
close to myself
I always
wanted someone to be watching
Someone to
see the beauty that I saw
I was a traveler of depths
And nowhere
was I home
But the
great omen of love
Spoke to my
spirit
In the
passing of the poet
Until one
winter night
In the late
poet’s own home
The spheres
they sang of song
And the gods
they danced below
And I whispered
to our son
That he was
a bountiful echo
In the
choral cadence of His mind
And see the
spirit of the poet is within you
He can never
die
Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
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