For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its saying where executives Would never want to tamper; it flows south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth.
2 comments:
Oh, how I do remember
the days of Party power,
the folks was in they chamber
but didn't ask for flour.
This poem makes my sides ache
there is in the oven a cake:
now I shall go and bake
and then you can have a piece
to eat.
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