By | 29 June 2008

After lunch I talked publication —
not mine — with an editor,
then listened to a poet panel
make poetry sound very hard.

Reluctant raindrops slimed the pavements,
left pedestrians morose and damp.
The city, in the humid dusk,
a jumble of high-rising tombstones,
each wilted crane a single stem
left for remembrance.

I did not to stay to hear
the visiting world-famous futurist
for whose talk I had a ticket.
There are scary sounds in cemeteries at night.

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