to Ruth Stone, so old and so new

I want to hear you more, mottled
prophet of wild eyes searching air

I want to be one foot from your
stained folding chair, heavy worded

hands waving, begging, rubbing words
into your white hair and my ears

like a quiet wind blowing blue squall
stomping up and down ancient stairs

upon which we crumble and climb
into blaring white sky and fall through

a hush of soft green needles
where your words play our grooves

like a record scratching love love love
and we swear that is what we are made for

in response to Ruth Stone

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