Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Elegy for the Forest Spinner

His sight, still dizzy with early death, 
can't take it in. But her gaze 
frightens an owl from behind the pschent.  And the bird, 
brushing, in slow neat-quitting, along the cheek, 
the one with the ripest curve, 
faintly inscribes on the new 
death-born hearing, as though on the double
page of an opened book, the indescribable outline.


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