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ROB HACK

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Togo Chasm

I

 

I have come through hardwoods,

from the road that circles the island.

 

Alone with a thousand jagged spires

sharply grey against the sky and sea.

 

The vast empty sea, east to Pablo’s

to Hart Crane slipping into the Caribbean

 

Celan finding refuge in the Seine,

Federico face down in a hillside grave.

 

The horizon line interrupted by an

ineffable mood. White top waves

 

of a deeper blue, and spray salted,

white, spews high above the cliffs.

 

The cliffs. In this place I sit   alone

with every poet I have ever known.

 

 

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