Wednesday, November 5, 2014

UNCULTIVATED

It's like recalling—so many 
spindly  
rust colored cords of

ivy—still clinging

hard
and huge and 
prodigiously

rudely—
to any old tough 
brick wall in 
Chicago in early fall;

I mean—how it rather 
has to be

the whole thing

that's the poem—
at the moment

you 
first chance
and look at it at all—and that's not all

but it wasprobably
everything.

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