Fred,
Judy has cleavered away to what she most favors, and thinks it a stunning poem:
---- Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Far House
<snip> when a life or poem has not
> sufficiently detached itself from yearning, <snip>
> One broods in lamplight over the days
> we planned to march upon and seize the House,
> then found there was no one behind us.
> The question, what we would have used it for –
> command center, files, perpetual orgy –
> breaks out again, but we’re old
> and nobody recalls what he supports.
> One talks about the art that lines the walls,
> the masterpieces one will never see.
> Another, of the twits who bought the art,
> the bar on every floor, the food they eat,
> the thousand-inch TV,
> the pearls and perfume over cleavages
> whose depth we’ll never know,
> the braying voices echoing in ours.
> One who sits apart announces
> he wants to burn it to the ground;
> then he could go.
> Go where? I ask, <snip>
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