Another poem from the pre-Cretaceous era. This one appeared in Plains Poetry Journal.
They asked me for a line or two, to show
what I could do, poetry-wise. I gave them:
"Though snow-bound now, I knew the spring before";
"the silver periphrasis of the moon";
"Amo, amat: the pilgrims cry, 'So what?'"
But they were not impressed. The Guggenheims
looked elsewhere for their beneficiaries.
I'd filled out every square on every form;
I even knew my mother's maiden name
and what the book after my next would be
called, if they ever gave me time to write it.
"Sorry," they said. "The volume of our mail
precludes an individual response."
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