Jerusalem, New York
Poets are queer fish who must be
allowed to go their own way.
A little town by the lake
where the waters lap
the shore of the history
of revolution reminds me
of where my friends live:
Albion, Michigan.
One makes books
and engraves the images
that make the ordinary
something divine.
The other makes the tools
that make the books.
I push my kayak into
the water. I call it my O
boat. It leaks. It could sink me
in “a New York minute.” If
I could, I’d replace it. And if
I live long enough, I will.
But for now, I cast a line
hoping for something
to bite, and something
to hold onto.
Jack of Clubs - William Blake
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