Three Poems by Pablo Saborío

Perennial Plato talks  about his hands,  how good, so virtual,  dreamed tools.   He moves  through 24 centuries  as a rope  carrying a wave.   My chin rests  on my palm  imperceptibly seeking sensation;  stubs of beard  soon fated for the sink.   There is a madness  that never goes dry,  is it age entering  …

The Aureliano Poems

Aureliano contends with what little he knows.  Lists make the world into something graspable  solitude careful intent fate  These three things made up his armor His shining armor shone  Do you remember the ice yes just like that in my shining armor too I can…

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