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Writing in Sand While Walking in Walt’s Footprints – Eleanor Wilner
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As I ebb’d with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk’d where the ripples continually wash you …

—Walt Whitman

Walking the shores with Whitman, under the dimming
stars of the eastern dawn, a small dog at our heels,
the dog’s mind mostly in his nose, reeling in the scents
of a half-rotted fish, damp sand, a lost sandal, a beached

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I, hermit – Bob Hicok

People
scare me — most people and most
of what they say — I’m happier
if you’re around me
at a distance — of miles
or years, whatever far
is farther away — poems
the only public mouth

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Night Below Zero – Kenneth Rexroth

3 AM, the night is absolutely still;
Snow squeals beneath my skis, plumes on the turns.
I stop at the canyon’s edge, stand looking out
Over the Great Valley, over the millions —

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Jack-in-the-Pulpit – Kimiko Hahn

after William Carlos Williams’s “Queen-Anne’s-Lace”

Remote purple lays claim to stem,
beside routine stripes of green and brown.
Dark as a patch of shade
in the marsh across the path

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