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Ode to Marlon GibsonMarlon, your mama and Jane Fonda and
The angels of babies with heart murmurs and Baubo, humor’s goddess, have all gotten together To decide how best to celebrate You. Not with a feast. Not with Dionysian debauchery, or some hallowed String of days in which men carry wives or Gas stoves in competition. Marlon, the women have Gotten together not to carve your Name in some rock or hard place. Instead They have taken your laughter like Stardust and sprinkled it on the Soil. They have sown the crops into Your perseverance and think to wait, wait, Spinning the golden hay of summer in their Dreams while the seed pods Germinate. Marlon, the women press the Clouds into service and wring from them their Sweat. The mill stone wears itself out as miles of Water tumbles away. Then, rest. Under Winter’s cover and Time, slowly passing, Marlon, until some Mythological morning breaks and Eyes squint upon a jade and chartreuse Landscape and you, The season coming, later Than expected, right at the Hour due, and more perfectly Than imagined. |
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