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So I met this poet.
Or perhaps he was a martyr,
I get the two confused.
He smiled with his tongue
between his teeth.
He lost himself, he said
between cheap champagne
and singing lessons.
So I began to look.

I looked under couch cushions
and between dying maples.
I asked phytoplankton
and talked to the great Okapi.
I caught pieces that fluttered down
like tapering winter's ash.
I fished them out of raindrops
and the grooves of that Stones record
you promised we'd dance to.
I flipped over cigarette butts
and the caps of cheap beer.

All that's left for him to find
is the way back to me.
It shouldn't be too hard, baby.
Look to the place where the glass glows
gold, amethyst, sapphire, like your sunsets.
The place by the park, drenched
in light and ice that shimmers.
Follow the chickadee and mourning dove
to where I stand.
Look for the ink in my curls
and I'll show you what I found.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by Elizabeth Thompson-Jones

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