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Richard O. Moore

By This Poet

1

Utensils

An available palette thickened by air
words I hold and so fast lose.

A thunder so low     an inaudible present     its slow
cycles place me shaking in its throat.

Stare     and beauty opens like a work of fire
a made thing     a connection must be made.

This is to say necessity is a place made all of stares
come beauty     come the final ruin of the world. Stop   :

for what it may be     or was     a burned-in-after-flash of fire 
over distance measured light years. The glamour of it all.