The Manchester Review
Don Bogen
Three poems
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Our Mutual Friend

That he could see the great wheel in its turning
as it drew out the eccentrics he had found
along his winding night walks; that its whirling,
rough as it was then, hurling to the ground
some entrepreneurial god or jolting up
a trash collector, pulsed inside his bones
and drove the engine of his mind to keep
gathering, dreaming, arranging, bringing home
the thief, the saint, the earnest awkward youth,
witch, fool and miser quickened into lines
of script, then type, a passion sweeping through
the vast rhetorical windstorms of his scenes
that sing now like a train well underway,
defining the landscape with its energy.