11.18.2005

A Sonnet, written in a hasty anger

Under Buffalo

Those days, when I wrote, I'd tear out a sheet
of notebook paper from its book and fold
it into quarters (I think that my feet
fit into size 8 shoes, to show how old
I was when I first practiced this fine art);
I'd slide the page in my back pocket when
I moved from class to class, and I took heart
in knowing it was ready, with my pen,
and I would write as I was moved to write.
Today, this morning, came the Mover near-
as winter's first attack had come last night-
and anger boiled up in me, filled my ear
with my own voice, promising this: I'll go
to an early grave, under Buffalo.

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