John Ashbery

The Template


was always there, its existence seldom
questioned or suspected.  The poets of the future
would avoid it, as we had.  An imaginary railing
disappeared into the forest.  It was there that the old gang
used to gather and swap stories.  It
was like the Amazon, but on a much smaller scale.

Afterwards, when some of us swept out into the world
and could make comparisons, the fuss seemed justified.
No two poets ever agreed on anything, and that amused us.
It seemed good, the clotted darkness that came every day.





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