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a poem by
Ernest Williamson III
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The Jazz of Old Wine

life is a disposition dipped in mirth divided by two
annulled in blithe and despair
like our first kiss
in the middle of yesterday's November rain
with fresh pine biting with congealed blue notes while
in the residue of phony lightning storms
I'd love to hold your story
from tears to triumph in my sheet music
as I wait here on the corner of Hope Street
singing  a change gone come
for twenty minutes
inside of twenty long years
and though I long for your utterance
I can still stand here
branded by these watery rainbows
near my shoes
these worn leather brown shoes.

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