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james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

Contact  James McGonigal

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         Father and Sons

As night woods wove their tweed
of straight and crooked branches,
a shuttle clacked for hours in the loom of his throat.

Snoring provided simultaneous translation
of dream-talk into Sanskrit,
or the rumble of applause for his own epic deeds.

Like a boulder recalling the arms
of a glacier it rolled in,
his skull resonated with epochs of snow.