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At the Coffeehouse 

Impassioned, her back to the busy street; she recites.
Washingtonville does not care about culture.
Thus, poets have claimed their pungent café,
once a carriage house, for a new omnibus.

Her story is original, and powerful.
There is youthful mania in her pen, ancestral wisdom in her green, magick eyes.

Her lithe body is smooth; alabaster naiad.
She is olde Europe and mad America.

Poet!
Open the vein of Night.
Let grey wind pour into nascent Spring, to write prayers in a pagan grove.

Her breath rustles a trembling page in her radical hand.
Her paper wings defy the circus and the sand.

Irish beer breeds golems from lust and apathy’s servants,
in the pub—west of her recitation.

My undulant mistress of enigma,
I raise my pen and coffee to her
in vain solidarity
as sirens cry (of) fire
in a late Winter night.

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