A poem by Tom Beckett from his blog, l’amour fou, April 6, 2013
Improv for Jean Vengua The person I thought I knew wasn’t. The shadows creeping across our lawn. The sentence which seemed complete. The haunted aspect of my/your/whose speech? The pronoun which won’t go away. The resultant tones. The first time, what’s between, the last time. The history of now. The future of now. The forgotten question.
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