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Comments about Luke Johnson
A Suburban Fall
I see the bloom of fall colors
this noon, with passing vagrants built
with nothing but poetry manuals and
smuggled balls in their pockets—
and they all come like Moses through
the desert in suburbia, through forest
of bubble gum and cigarette butts
and they neither smile nor cry, and
they do nothing but talk about apparitions
of their soul
And they reflect like sea glass wading in
muddy waters of oily old omnipotent rivers
of Christ tears dressed in black.
and the unity candle held by father time
likes to dismiss their intelligence with ...