Truth, Beauty
by Andrea Potos

Poet friends have cautioned me
about using those words, they
were John Keats' after all, and he
is long dead.
Hasn't the 19th century
gone the way of London fog,
chamber pots,
whalebone corsets?
No one, I was told,
will believe
those words in a poem
with no modern ground
to plant them, ominously perched as they are
on precipices of prayer.



(previously published in Marrow of Summer, Kelsay Books)  

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