The twilight quiet of the evening
would be perfect were it not
for the persistent whine of
near-invisible mosquitos.
Day would be satisfactory
were it not so hot, and dawn,
radiant in her pearlescent robes,
sends me packing, cursing dew-soaked shoes.
Is art impossible without
a dose of bitters, Angostura,
charging sweetness and intoxicants
the way a defect in a pretty girl
can startle a bland face
into the Beautiful
--Patrick Mizelle
From these eyes comes
the sight of the dogwood blossoms,
from these ears comes
the sound of cars rushing by outside like crashing waves,
from these feet comes
the feeling of cold tile,
from this nose comes
the smell of spring rain.
From this flute comes
a song
played by a musician
who shall remain anonymous.
--Jesse Cardin
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