Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)
tore carefully the edge, open, of the thing
a New York, perhaps, story
drunken, again, postmaster/
mistress deposits, months,
your long sent gift into the wrong
mailbox downstairs, tenant of
said mailbox on vacation long away
only just arrived from Barcelona
only just got to his mail, found your
gift for me delivered at my surprised,
happily, door only this dull morning
making/waking up the coffee cup
which, too, was flat until the surprise
knocked, arrived, tore carefully the
edge of the thing, which
brought/brings me still surprise,
joy, eyes, scanning in the images/words
and I am greatly in the
entrance/in-trance of the
and elusive eventing of it.
Just let you know:
I have written, angry, a note
to the post office, this, late
gift arriving not on time but
timely, blame is no good thing,
yes, to waste on minor salvation
at the door
when two filthy floors below,
just, a note post haste, landlord's,
on tenant door, yellowed paper,
scribbled, declaring, now premised,
such tenement woes,
now go forth, I, afraid to
touch walls, fast walk
wide away, around, from
it, hard done,
close it is,
That said, nearby flit,
I am in a thorough, now,
(enough) read/study of that
your arrival which would have
eluded me as, once, a young
man, now, yields if one can get
through the densities and
immense, his own, narcissism
but there is, clear, some
greatness therein, it, yielding,
for which Narcissus can
justly be stroked and fond-ed.
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