Friday, October 18, 2013

Michael Cluff- A Poem


Alvaro digested
nothing of lasting intent and parabolics,
the conifers of Jupiter Falls
grew faster than he
allowed himself
to consciously do.
Math was not
as good as pie
and Pozant
he and his grandparents
would love to forget
wherever a glossy-white
new blimp sauntered
overhead in olive-tinted
late October skies.

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