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NOIR 

I could write a hundred poems
about the look of your sleeping face

here where the wood stove waits

for fast-approaching winter

I’m on the floor in front of your couch

surrounded by books of poetry

kept company by the constant hum

of our modern age and the ageless

sound of your breathing

not even Sam Spade could unravel

the intricate mystery of how

we came to be here tonight
but as soon as you walked into the cafe
I knew you were trouble


Jason Crane

INTO THE DARKNESS 



"I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all."
—Richard Wright

THE VOICE OF THE RAIN ~Walt Whitman | Leaves of Grass 



AND who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower, 

Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea, 

Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed,
  and yet the same, 

I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe, 

And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn; 

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,
  and make pure and beautify it
(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering, 

Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)
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