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Reading a poem by Di Piero, …the best
of love is enthusiasm’s/ intense abandon,
a voice/ in song that preys on no one/ and is
unconscious of its joy
, I have to stop and think
hard to remember: when was the last time I
felt such rust-colored joy, ruddy as the copper-
clad teakettle brought quick to the boil,
singing its head off atop the stove?


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Ghazal of the TranscendentalOn the sense of danger or foreboding, the prickling →

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