In this major minor poet's
mountain storiesstirring resonances strung
with Mingus, Mozart,
relishing the pure joy
of his language,
how he gathers poems
the way we cluster
flowers in a basket,
with a sense of sounds
acute enough that clocks
will tick away
his concentration,
horn of winds
in mountain trees
decree a verse
as overture or riff,
their gravity compelling
me to lean into
the sharp points
for a time,
until the man becomes
a shadow of the poet,
not the poem itself,
which is immortal.
...
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