Friday, December 14, 2012

NEW! Poem by Maureen Thorson

Maureen Thorson

GRAY LADY


Abstracted
in the stacks,
where time
disintegrates

old news,
I won’t volunteer
to tend
the ghosts

of headlines,
rustling,
as they do,
a shade

too quietly,
even here.
Instead,
my researches

will brew
fresh happenings.
Clipped
with severe,

short strokes,
these serifed 
shapes
will braid

the notes
for novels
that I’ll stew
from almanacs,

obituaries,
the want ads’
misspelled
inquiries.

I’ll sieve
the sparkle
from human
interest,

the mad
percussion
of the war
reports.

The fastest
way (but 
not 
the simplest)

to write
is to distort
the veil
between

homage
and theft.
Nothing’s new
beneath

the sun,
but deft
reweavings
can gleam

as near
as makes
no difference.
Hand me now

my shears—
I flex them
to the music
of the spheres.

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