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Charlie Smith


  • Poetry May 23, 2002

    Pursued by Love’s Demons

    As if the back streets of our local city
    might dispense with their pyrrhic accumulation of dust and wineful tonality,
    offer a reprise of love itself, a careless love
    rendered grand and persuasive
    by its own shy handful of hope, some ballast such as this
    on a summer afternoon when the air smells of slaughtered chickens,
    and other problems, like the estranged spouse of a good friend,
    holler from the passageway. It's always conclusive
    in the bungled moment after you try to accomplish something irreducible.
    So you say as you return empty-handed from the store,
    having forgotten everything--your money, the list.

    Charlie Smith