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 Canada is rich with its unknown famous poets.


You’d be surprised and sobered to know how many prize winners


Are no longer read or even recalled, not only by the young


But by their associates. And those back jacket endorsements


Proclaiming “one of our greatest” below a photograph


Glowing with Sears’ confidence is not holy writ nor even


Cereal box acclamation but a general epithet affixed


Randomly on the creativity assembly line.


Who visited Liz Gourlay at the end, or Eldon Grier; few did


Anne Marriott, her music reduced to rudimentary acknowledgments


And now Florence, whose poems I recall vaguely from when I was 18 &


Rampaged through the whole slew of Canpo available in the local library,


Avid for all, imagining glory, knowing now you can die ignominious


From a staph infection after going to the hospital with a broken hip.


Like anyone else, obviously, and even I didn’t drop in with flowers or to say


Once I read your poems, though I don’t recall which or why you were said


To be among our country’s finest crop of bards, blurbs rarely ending


Up (don’t forget this), as epitaphs.