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Comments about Howard Steng
On Visiting An Oak Tree In Warwick
I breathe the same painted blue sky
under a canopy of pointed leaves
brushed with white cloud
where I dreamt my legs were covered
with clover, chamomile and vine
while I lie beneath, sinewy roots grounding me,
during flights of string'd quartets and Mars,
longing to leave the ghetto,
my father's tread of indifference.
I was Zeus waiting for Kronos,
wanting to be devoured each time
while my mother chopped excuses for dinner
hiding obsessions only for him,
the mouse asking for a ride across the lake
fully aware of consequences,
or the ...