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Poetry Graces Me
by Dave M. Matthews

Poetry graces me my best moments
as when fingers trembly with excitement
in the course of youthful bookstore perusal
once chanced upon a golden sardine
flung from Bob Kaufman’s amphetamine-fevered brain
that left me loopy drunk
middle of the afternoon —
I thrill to read
of pleasure dome and opium dream
and shiver on a chill St. Agnes Eve —
a drunken boat
and a cloud in trousers
my boon companions,
I am in eager thrall
to a muse whose gift flows ever wondrous
in bright, broad, magic-dark stream
and bestows this bag of bone and blood
delight and reason to be  

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