Langston in the balcony grows restless
notices the accented syllable
runs off the page like a son of a gun
it steadies itself in a joke or two
what of the evening what of the heather?
isn’t it lovely as a dream that cares
that sates beauty with reason or reverse
it grants that as people we are the worse
we have no chance of survival that’s not
a mere chance made of heaven sent last shots
--what does it say of the human race when
the last chance will come and go round again?
We still exist in a vacuum of love
While Love has pursued us to its last Move.
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