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At the Grave of Walt Whitman

I was in Philadelphia and
crossed the bridge to Camden.
“I’m satisfied,” I said.
“There’s grass growing here
and I no longer care
what anyone might think of me
or what the future holds
or when and if comes money.”
I heard you speak, you are not dead
nor have I lived more than I lived
when you first spoke.
I kneel down in the grass
slide out some blades to chew.
I’ve read you, know your caress
and see out in the void your hand still is
trembling for my touch.
Walt Whitman, you’re the spit
green along my lips.
Help me to trust in it.

Walt Whitman by Akram

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