DPF / Tate

Twenty-three years today since our father had his gun salute and American-flag folding. He was not a pilot, but he was a B-52 navigator.

from The Lost Pilot / by James Tate

and you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well

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DPF / Justice

An extra one today, for the rain. The poem that carried me to Florida.

from Bus Stop / by Donald Justice

And the last bus
Comes letting dark
Umbrellas out —
Black flowers, black flowers.

DPF / Milosz

from Ars Poetica? / by Czeslaw Milosz trans. by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee

What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.