Yesterday’s Poem

As I struggle to be free
from the cries
of yesterday’s poem,
the sirens in the distance
cut through the sounds
where I stand.

And now
the next poem is born
in what is heard,
it’s sounds
separated
and chorded
in their working.

Then,
pushing and pulling,
I remember
notes tempered
by invention,
then, singing them
in tune,
I give them a slap,
and turn them over
to you.

Don Cadwallader

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