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,

Grand Shroompa
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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