It’s World Poetry Day

… or so says UNESCO, so I’m chipping in. You should, too.


In Our Time of Great Speed

in our time of great speed
everything’s fast
even spring
the sticky green leaves
opened in march
as the sun ticked us
closer to 90 degrees
though we dug out cars
in marches past
and under the ground
thirteen-year cicadas
murmur in half-sleep;
“twelve, twelve”

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