When the grand gesture becomes the
real gesture,
And Lear weeps, maddens, dies,
Along, alive or not, comes our father
From wherever he ranged
When we were ten days old,
Leaps with a falling man's screech,
And in what is always the cliffhanger of our lives,
Pokes out our eyes
Or kisses them,
I forget which.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts