Poetry:
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MORE EVERY DAWN
to the nonhuman
A quick wheeling up of many a pigeon
on sky begun to clear while to the east
riparian woods have the gray of a with-
drawing cloud over them but not the wet
the pigeons have taken to a rooftop
battlement and now are gone the sunlight
catching the trees too much is alive at dawn
I want to stay here with the nonhuman
but I have to hurry to a human fight
no matter who may win it you will lose
you are everything that I am not and
am and am off on my way to harry
I have little right to wait and awe at you
the very blood in my eye would make me
look at you with impatience even contempt
almost daring you to look back it has
become my duty to hate you oh I am
not like others I might claim but the mass
of me is part of the sum that will weigh on
you more every dawn next to which a
word a love are only a pigeon feather
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ES AMOR
You have moved through the women’s
inner library on a waft
the lighting low the carpet
a sponge to any sound of you
in hallways that know no man
air only a faint bonhomous
tittering now and then you
have left a quick smile not a word
with me in hurry to the
flare of the public room in which
you work I have lived on that
but
there is no list in me to-
day I am empty do not
see you and think maybe you have
tired of throwaway looks
are bent to avoid my old-man
unlocked den at the stairs’ foot
there is nothing to me so why
am I here why code this mag-
azine
toward two I happen
to check the schedule and see
you are not in the building to-
day have it off
es amor
how many millionth a time
did men so conclude until
Borges a librarian wrote
it down forever
es a-
mor
and how can I doubt it now
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TURCOMAN SONG
If there were a when to think of you again it
would be now but how is an olden eye
to take in this or any spring another jolt
of beginning the rivers high and raw
in a notion of youth that is only a wring
to me who have seen too many a run
time what every mounted aspiration comes
to but even so I know an earth scent
in the wind again and want to dream among the
janissaries of you even ride as
spahi toward the gate of every when my
bold olden eye can imagine you in
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Rodney Nelson started publishing his work a long time ago but did not write a poem between 1982 and 2004, when he made a comeback in the ezines. See his entry in the Poets & Writers directory. Nelson has worked as book and copy editor and lives in the Great Plains.
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