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A Poem: Day-to-Day Thoughts in Abstract 

These aspirations, (long pause)
this torn blanket has me all swallowed
and black and scarlet whistlings, like a ghost rumbling,
emerge around the vision gathered up and dance and then
fade as I turn my back to it and walk, placing my
head between two pages.

Now all the time I have to squelch back my pride, all those
slashing and colorful lanterns bobbing in the wind, and distill to
realize the slow pursuit of the mortal whistlings and hungry
muffled music as I thought I heard all the city’s buildings
hold their breath just so I could hear the river flow.

Speaking of Peter Bell, poetry

  • A poem by Peter Bell.


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