'Inevitable?' said the flutist, lips pursuing the apical G; a placid finish blowing swirls across the table. We require, not pipers but a choir, not Hamelin but Paumanok, - Distracted, but for a moment. I buoyantly idle white caps, grey gulls, forgetful lines crossing beneath the centuries idle the ferry’s chin digging into the shoulders of costumed crowds shuttled through murk, brine, Where was your future a hundred years hence? Mr Whitman, I’ve lost your generations of men, women, and oscillating gulls. I’ve been to Paumanok, your mother’s home, your mall. A round, another round, of alms around whom, with tasseled conscience, formed a book, forgetful read never to work not a crinkle of spine not the last crisp chapter A rough noose a ring, then a coat of arms a living crowd, I was one of a crowd in the breathless distance beneath his bridge.
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Written 2011.
New poetry! How. . . odd. This is one of the first to live almost exclusively in the blogger post. I have a draft in an offline file, but it is several revisions behind. This cloud business is a little disconcerting, but highly utilitarian.