Who will bellow “Saul, Saul,”
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on the road to anywhere anymore.
Who will pass on the flash of light
from someplace we can rarely see.
Prose -Your posturing prose
such hard prose that fell
from the sky to your page -
hard boiled sweets of hate and life.
Did you know? I threw all your pages out.
All the pages that caught those words
and I search frantically for,
now that you are gone.
Did your otherness give
you eyes to see
the sameness in us all?
Did we perhaps bore you
till you left?
My young eyes would sip
and drink and eat
you phrase by phrase.
In your search for a literary heart -
did you miss mine? I miss yours.
Your ignoble human heart,
your damnable nobel prize.
I would hold the first and trade the last
for one more time with you.
Not the poem which we have read, but that to which we return, with the greatest pleasure, possesses the power and claims the name of essential poetry.