Poetry

“If prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running quite fast through it.”
Anne Carson

CODA: A Poem

The fit seizes me—I drift— tearing sound of shot silk— plosions below. Gray sun changes to pale yellow wash. Milt bops. Duke downshifts. Bessie kneels from midnight to sun        in golden chains. Thin hipped, thin lipped, you come trailing your bluest India, weeping to any night switchman, tickling his crotch— Sex, you sing, is just …

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