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49 The Return (after long silence) Hello, poetry—I been gone a while. I wonder can I still pentameter? Not bad, not bad—the stresses all occur just where they’re s’posed to. Maybe I’ll whip up some imagery next (I’ve settled style already, this peckerwood vernacular)— but on what topic? How cats sometimes purr and stretch, and pop their claws, and seem to smile for no good reason, except perhaps the sun invades a corner with a blade of heat? Trouble is, that implies a want of message. You can’t write sonnets just to have some fun, just to bask in the long slow sleepy passage of warmth and light across the dreaming meat. ...

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