Ode, on realizing that five of my best poems were born doing Sixty on Two Eighty between Page Mill and Sand Hill

— Diane Lee Moomey

It’s the Dish.

That metal ear plucks news from the Nebulae:
baseball scores from Betelgeuse,
what they’re wearing on Altair,
the latest on Strings.

Some waves never die.

That Dish, smelling of static,
warps its own space—sonnets and villanelles
leak from lambent fissures.
Egrets, one-legged, contemplate haiku
and cows surround, pantoum-oo
with bovine grace.

Stanfordians circumambulate.

The Dish.
News from the Nebulae,
the best of Orion’s Open Mics
and, rebounding off the cosmos’ curvéd walls,
the syllables of bards long gone
returning to shatter our firmament
all over again.

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