ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE YEAR

It rains behind the library window

as I sit on a sofa reading a book by Glück,

close to falling asleep as I kill time waiting

for the mid-day bus. Such soft condemnations

of the path poetry took in the USA, like raindrops

outside hitting cracked asphalt. They exist,

but leave no mark, and uniting, run along

the cracks to pool, like these essays

to the pages of her book.

26.05.2023

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