Her neck like a forearm

— For Charles Wright

Inside it is, indeed, the Renaissance,
but not by reason

of the velvet cuff.
The night sky through

the half-open window
is pretty

much the same as five
hundred years ago.

Venice endures.
Pound is dead, Montale.

The typesetter is closed,
the inky room dark, locked.

For forty years these lines
my ear-worms

awake, asleep,
XYZ, you said again, again

but I am lost
to lyric

heeding only
the white noise.

Listen: 0101010001101001011011010110010100100000011001100110111101110010001000000111001101101001011011000110010101101110011000110110010100101110

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