i adore hearing
the strange music
of echoing thoughts
whistling through iron
cables towers wooden
planks of the promenade
the bridge hums with power
transmitting from there to here
across the wide and deep water
between my ideas and my verses

closing my eyes
i see old walt whitman
crossing below knowing
i await him across real time
i begin to truly hear the endless

#147. Bad Reading

January 19, 2010

A popular favorite
The door frame
of your house
is cool relief
from dry pastoral prose-poems.

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