my grandmother sits
she tells me stories
reminds of things
like happiness and wisdom, and that
America is so very young
she reminds me that
Love is the end of a fleeting fire
a flicker. and then another.
a thing so profound and persistent
a thing so dumbfounding
she sings to me her past
in the low, cold vibration of blues
in the winds of a southern Illinois pasture
in the spark of midnight fires
and in the rhythm of waves
as warships of men
who stood so tall
departed our glorious coasts
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