Recovering Art Goodtimes

We all carry the echo
baritone poem shouts us alert
in thunder throat rolls
spark-eyes peeking from electric hair
takes flight in upraised arms
hugs us off our feet, wild grandpa
squatting, mushroom
springing up red magic overnight
wisdom spores on the wind
wind of Art’s word
huge and silent now, healing close
to the brown earth
our hearts the archeology
of duff seeded with him, beating
waiting, praying, needles parting
his new voice to rise
at any volume, even the page
the page is loud, very loud
we hear it, we hear him in it
we hear him.


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