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IN THE LITERARY MAGAZINE

there was a photo of a poet 

whose work I had never read. 

He stood in front of a cabinet 

full of dishes. 

His lines followed, but I never got to read them 

because I suddenly understood 

without looking at the stanzas 

that I would know everything 

about his poetry that I needed to know 

if only I could reach past the ink and emulsion 

deep into the picture 

and turn one of those dishes over 

to read the mark underneath.