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Aesthetics of Contemplation: Poetry Leaves

He met her in the foyer of a theatre, novel in her hand, clip board in his hand,

Market research on the tip of his tongue,

He says ‘ Are you here to watch Within Rooms’

She says ‘No’

He says ‘Susan Songtang?’

‘Yes but it’s not philosophy’ says she

‘It might be philosophical’ says he

‘Yes but it’s not Foucault’ says she

‘Ah, Pul – Michel – Foucault, french philosopher, historian of ideas, social theorist and literary critic’

He didn’t really say that

He said ‘Ah, Foucault, the bald dude’

She said ‘Yes the blond dude’

He made her laugh, he made her smile. She’s German – French.

‘A real European’ he replies

‘A really real European’ she replies

Now he’s on the cold beach, writing this poem on fallen autumn leaves

Ink on his hand, now the statues of his psyche dance at the idea of a new romance

The setting sun in his heart rises over the horizon at the thought of that really real European

reading Songtang.

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