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by jdavidcharles

This poem is me processing (poem as process? process as poem?) through some stuff and a reflection more on working-through rather than what I am working-through specifically. Been reading more Robert Creeley and WC Williams, concerning myself with esoteric images but not in an Eliot or Pound anti-American disparaging way (hopefully), but with more of a Whitman flair. Perhaps this makes it bad Hart Crane.

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having come a
little farther

this morning,
sunrise, and
        thinking,

thinking; at times
I was certain of

motion, consist
-ency of step,

(and a sound
        of steps
                down flights of
                countless
        stairs, and
rain on
roof
-tops):    you

are not the
one beside me

in the night, not
the rain

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