Of Contour, of Cadence
Resist, don’t: the difference between what one thinks
the magnolias say—branches applauding
some animal act below—and what
they actually say…nothing
between us can
we prepare for, only postpone. I’ve learned
to plead and to please, another difference.
Turn your face that way where light no more
transfigures you than darkness makes a need for
transfiguration. Yes, the scar above your eye.
Blood had dropped from the wound, a curtain.
But I believe we are, inside, all blue, you said.
Listen, neither we nor blue make sky.
The earth spins and we, utterly, are spun.
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