JOHN ASHBERY; OBITUARY
It fell out of a book today. A little
old and already yellowing. Isn't
that sad? Like just yesterday, it
seems, I looked forward to reading
each new piece he wrote - more
and more perplexing, I thought,
and getting worse each time. All
of non-sequitors, and seemingly
random things that even Poetry
has a hard time ordering up.
-
Now, he's so long dead and already
forgotten that it makes a life seem
like a piddling petal off a flower
soon fading. Everyone makes up
stories; some have bigger whoppers
to tell than others. Some rhyme; most
do not. A spelling-bee at a Dunkin
Donuts couldn't be more fun.
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