Presentation 1726

Editor poetry, William B. Hunt 0 Comments

My father with hands warm as high octanes at a dead jetport in blue leaves, my father who wisely thought nothing of Bartok’s death, my father who lived in the past whenever I touched his echo, my father of gold still accruing in my memory, my father whose bones were burned one morning, who rusted shut at night and was whistled away into absolute poetry, my father who listened to rock music while carrying moist roots in his hands, my father who fell into the machinery of moody spinning wheels, whose enflamed iron spectacles longed for more nomad emergency moonrises…

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