For Michael Franco
there must be a way
to enter your poetry
the way your words turn
into meaning after meaning
into the depths of memory
into the silence of the beach
which of course is never silent
but it seems so when I an there alone
and then the birds come
over the dunes
the tiny sandpipers,
silent in sand
creating the rhythm
of your poem
and far out beyond my eyes
the great white pelicans
and as I watch them I see
how I must enter your poetry
wings folded against the wind
as I slice again and again
into the measure of your ocean
there where silence is translated
into language
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