The wind is mathematics,
and your tear ducts
me insisting we continue,
the curvature of your smile
the rock you sat down on,
the ocean that sighed in your stead
the proof that life is a theorem,
which can never be proven to be one
The wind is mathematics,
and your tear ducts
me insisting we continue,
the curvature of your smile
the rock you sat down on,
the ocean that sighed in your stead
the proof that life is a theorem,
which can never be proven to be one
J.D. McClatchy (1945 - 2018) was a prolific poet, editor, critic and librettist from Pennsylvania. He was praised for his polished and erudite verse. Lines on my face Decades now of looking back at it— in some old satellite’s rearview mirror, say— has something to show beyond the folds and feeders, the volumes of magma ...
We climbed the same mountain today A few white hairs we blew in the wind We surrendered to what never attacked us We entrusted our future to a rock I roll small pebbles down a precipice to test the symbolic capacity of this mountain. You smile and I talk the next two mountains in you ...
I risk an early death by sitting down for this so listen: my clavicles move like daggers to write cut-throat poetry for you no jokes. no mirrors. This here is a message you cannot unread. Also, it ages less quickly than we do. When you and I have turned into dust, this thing will be ...
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