dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant annual ball
racing above the Earth in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend,
she became a successful actress on stage
and the early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
and the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky
on a cloudless night.
all poets should be so lucky.
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