The Moors by Martin A. Ramos

Victrola records scratched and scarred,
the letters of van Gogh unread, and poems
to be painted, corrected and filed
after the words form, gently bidden.

I write a calculus for the intellect
and find a dust bin for desire.
The writing is all, or mostly all.
Lonely, a hawk alone, like
during the composition of a song.

A welcomed guest, anticipated:
Dark, misty, quiet, heath overgrown;
the hawk flies home.
Mysterious like the moors.

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