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Old Flame will never die out because it doesn’t burn, yet (like everything else, those leaves of summer, in the old metal can of the world but it is a real fire, fed by your sinews, shot from the sun, a white spot through the magnifying glass of you nothing can touch her, conceived as she is, a woman with a ghostly conception the old men, the sages, say it your old man, your brothers, have it each man has his own Immaculata the general, and the bright particular the oddest things are clutched, being most brittle her getting into a car, her walking into school a piece of clothing, a sweater, the stands on the football field each thing a liberation, and a bar in your prison a yellowing envelope, a fifteen cent stamp an address to a street and a house that perhaps stands) what it touches burns to the ground. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2014-09-02 21:46:41
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
OMG. Wow. This is as powerful as it is painful and delightful to read. There are so many ways this poem touches common ground. Not in the actual places and events, but each of them are easily substituted for events and places to each reader that will read this. A Rosetta stone for pain and passion