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Thomas Hardy in Oregon, Summer 2007

By Floyd Skloot Poetry

Dawn sun glints off the dome of a golden statue I never saw in our garden before. Not squat, like my wife’s stone Buddha snug in its niche on the gazebo, but taut with a kind of waking energy, and life-sized for a man of my own height. A breeze tosses the lilac’s leaves until…

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Fauré in Paris, 1924

By Floyd Skloot Poetry

Nearing eighty, Fauré has found the end of sound. He never would have guessed it had so much to do with the Mediterranean light of childhood, or lake breezes swirling all summer at Savoy, and so little to do with music growing quieter everywhere but in his mind. He is relieved to hear the garbled…

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