Saturday, March 15, 2014

[[...of an exiting Neruda ]].

    a niche in the pavement,
black hat head-spun southward

in glassy trill, the din of clock &
        springtime sprig snap
or that of an existing wound--
            intimate passerby:

     a shadow musician
accustomed to striking bow
along alley corridors

with hands & heart you
      greet him
   expecting a great
 a spectacle

     you’ve only once

from a bird, dusky nightingale,
     who sung mournfully
     through the salty spray
              of the sea.

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