Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

And so…

And so

The quiter quits quiting finding the kick
Kicked him back to the place he meant to be
So he went, a begrudged child, pouter, and man

Became man, like Yeat’s solitary soul,
Or swan, or perhaps I mix things up still,
Am I? The quiter decides to paint the swans

That drift into the mind like the lovers,
Agatha and Hamilton, who landed
In Mill pond at the head of his river

Each spring. Yes, he remembers, yes he
Does. Like bent ankle ice hockey mockery
By the boys who could spray ice on him

He cannot forget how the words must flow
Like snow must fall, like earth must move
Out of the way of sprouts trying so hard.

16 Responses to “And so…”

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