[36] The Poet’s Poem, Danny P. Barbare

Dear America, I have written
this
poem to you
in the ink of azaleas
on a ridge of blue
with words that buzz like
bumblebees
this is the South, my page of
paper
this is my home, the place I
know
The rolling foothills of cursive
where
you are welcome within these
margins.
The pen is the tool of
the season.
The cartridge of the Carolinas.

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