After Keats

We trace the shadows, like Keats, with chance’s hand,

Love both what’s missing and what’s at our feet;

Poised on our toes we, for a moment, stand,

Not rushing our brushstrokes, not in retreat;

Drawing mysteries but not on demand,

Our truncated poems find their own feet.

The dance is unfinished, not incomplete.

 

Nicholas Power

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About Gesture Press

The poetry of Nicholas Power and his reviews of singular poems in a sequence titled Cadence.
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