from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DCRyan Flaherty
Whatever is making noise ignores me. The air is thick with perseverance, the tuning fork of Switchgrass pales, seed heads sway huge and dehisce. A late dusk brightens. What the Chinese call, return-shine, fan chao, the air burning as if from within, the fevered light in the eyes of the almost dead. It either breaks. Or it breaks. The “Messiaen” redux (its parenthesized walls): “chord blue sky day time lung” Harvesting is a private reduced domain at most one can bring down two, maybe three at once. A bag of apples is good rest, so lie down.
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