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Poetry

             And I still don’t know if I am a falcon,
or a storm, or a great song.
                                                   —Rilke

So I could be a song. But a great song? Or a bluegrass tune
with a decent chorus and a shift to the minor to savor every time,

and a break I can almost play. Or one of those wordy obscure
Dylan tunes that nobody remembers except the fanatics,

one he’s half-forgotten himself, or drags out at the end
of the concert and screws up totally just to be contrary.

Or one of those earnest dull protest songs everybody my age
half-knows, played by the equally earnest guy whose heart

is in the right place, who can almost hit the chords and the notes
and will repeat the chorus at the end to make sure you get it.

Or not a song at all, but an answer to a question nobody asked.
Light from a hidden source, so the room seems dark

but the page is bright. Or a window filled with knotted wood
and greens, the shape of someone barely visible as they pass.

 


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