we could send you out there to join the cackle squad, but hey, that highly accomplished, thinly regarded equestrian—well there was no way he was going to join the others’ field trip. Wouldn’t put his head on the table. But here’s the thing: They had owned great dread, knew of a way to get away from here through ice and smoke always clutching her fingers, like it says to do. Once we were passionate about the police, yawned in the teeth of pixels, but a far rumor blanked us out. We bathed in moonshine. Now, experts disagree. Were we unhappy or sublime? We’ll have to wait until the next time an angel comes rapping at the door to rejoice docently. (I know there’s a way to do this.) © 2015 John Ashbery. Used with permission of the author. |
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