A poem a night

The weather is mild winter on its way to meet summer. Two girls are doing their clockwise rounds ,their pigtails dingdong on blouse backs. Old film songs are waking pant pockets.

This morning we read Ashbery. From all corners come distinctive offerings. From old men’s chairs, going and gone. From the mountains sitting on horizons. From the corners of balconies with their clothes dripping.

There are corners to our throats. Their poems go on . A daily poem from a night’s stack. Till none is left in the pile.

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