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Romp and Storm


Radiance crosses a room like

A fever-canister, brief salvo,

Desire’s name caught without rescue

Above boy-romp and traffic.

Out in the thrashing sun-

Light I see how nightshade

Hauls itself up the storm

Fence like a convict, jangles

Its deadly little flowers. It

Isn’t love makes me thus

Connect, we hoist and carry

All that for what we

Got no name. Chigger-brash

The sorrel’s weedy obligados thrive

In sun where you are

Nameless and I am coming.

 

 

—John Latta



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