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No Diminishing Returns

June 17, 2009


We talk fifty miles over wire, a mile
for each year since our eyes touched.
Legends still vibrate in your voice, fables,
story of a stray star, Atlantis provoked,
burst meadow beyond the hill, bedding down,
a tree counting the darkness, flower in a field
of rye. I remember a winter clean as salt,
memorialized snow banks, foreign country

of a couch thickly green and awkward
as landed amphibian, a blue wool skirt
of accordion pleats I blew smoke into,
my ear on its blue sky listening to stars
inside, eyes closed, mouth opened,
stretching, reaching, turning corners.

by Tom Sheehan

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  1. June 17, 2009 at 12:41 pm | #1

    Good grief! I’ve gotta get a hankie and daub my brow.

    Yes, those *lost* moments aren’t lost at all. Lossless economy.

  2. June 18, 2009 at 9:18 am | #2

    *I remember a winter clean as salt,* oh, what I wouldn’t give to write a phrase as pure and potent as that…this is such a fiercely fine memory poem.

  3. June 18, 2009 at 10:03 am | #3

    I see my good friend Holly A. and I feel the same about this poem, line by line, truly/literally achingly beautiful.

  4. June 18, 2009 at 10:49 am | #4

    This is simply lovely.

  5. June 18, 2009 at 11:48 am | #5

    Such intense recall, magical.

    Always such a distinctive, wonderful voice.

  6. June 18, 2009 at 6:13 pm | #6

    Once again, I say, “My God, Tom. How do you do this?” Your depth is forever. You leave us aching, wanting, yet satisfied. You Are a Great American Writer. Thank you Tom.

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