Wednesday, July 29, 2015


My father's real soldiers in an imaginary country
Are the ancestors of the real men I once stranded
On the sides of a five-peaked imaginary mountain.
Their own ancestors, though, are more humble
Surely being Marianne Moore's real toads
In an imaginary garden. It is a pleasant place
And Moore’s tri-corned ghost often visits
Sitting under a tree listening to Red Barber
Broadcasting a 1955 Dodger game
The incumbent toads have mixed feelings
About living in Ms. Moore’s garden.
On the one hand, Death has no entrance key;
On the other, there's no sport in hunting
Imaginary bugs which never taste quite right.

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