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  …

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