The mingling

When the poets mingle—
sad-sacks and sorts sorrier
when suppressed in the egg—
the whole frontier bows
to their cawing,
quiet as it is, shucked and hulled
for the later hollaring.
When the poets mingle
their replicated god learns
languages only beasts keep current;
else they burn, if given ours,
like ghastly lovers speaking
each other’s tongue to each other.


~ by Jeremy on January 25, 2013.

One Response to “The mingling”

  1. What shit! Must practice more often.

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