[to James Larkin Pearson]
teetering on the edge of silence,
will we fall through a magic web
or through the mirrors of the
only, possible?
your children forget to dream
but they are good at science;
if science forgets to dream...
concluding in colored chalks,
I will never!
and nothing needs to be proved.
teetering on the edge of silence
we inhaled deeply
the sharp winds
made of stars
mary angela douglas 5 august 2014
and what you may ask are the archeological layers "piled up" on top of the poet's words and those of his tribe: you name it. And by his tribe I mean all those rustic American poets (of which he may very well be the purest example) who were not ashamed of their heartfelt sentiment toward home, toward country, and, in Mr. Larkin's case, the earth itself.
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