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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 12:26:12 GMT -5
I'm a poetry lover and have collected poems that I like. I also receive a monthly e-mail newsletter from the Academy of American Poets concerning poetry, historical and modern. April is Poetry Month and for that month, they send out a poem every day.
I thought that I might share some of those I have received in past years and then share those that I receive in April. I hope some of you may find the enjoyment that I do in these poems.
Besides I need something to entice Cold Warrior to join us.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 12:29:27 GMT -5
Faithless by Lawrence Raab
The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits. . .
Matthew Arnold
By mid-July I'm tired of the mountains. I want to be near the sea, walk beside it for an hour or two, watch it cleaning the wounds of the shore. Such persistence—though we know there isn't a plan, just this going back over the same places, revising everything out. "Is there a way to win?" Jane Greer asks Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past. "Well," he says, "There's a way to lose more slowly." He knows he shouldn't trust her, and he doesn't care. Ah, Matthew Arnold, our lovers are more melancholy than yours, more desperate, more faithless. "You can't help anything you do," Mitchum tells her at the end. Which is what he might have told himself. But nobody ever sees how far the things we shouldn't feel can take us. I just want to walk along the shore for an hour, watch the waves rearranging whatever they can. I like the way the sea encourages me to think about the past, as if I could leave it where it is: the moon on the water, the stars that gleam and are gone.
from TriQuarterly, no. 128
Lawrence Raab is the author of six collections of poems, including What We Don't Know About Each Other (winner of the National Poetry Series and a finalist for the 1993 National Book Award), The Probable World (2000) and Visible Signs: New and Selected Poems (2003), all published by Penguin. He teaches literature and writing at Williams College.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 14:54:39 GMT -5
Poem of the Day:
"The Aerodynamics" by Rick Bursky in Death Obscura [Sarabande Books, Inc.]
The night she walked to the house she held a string; on the other end, fifty-three feet in the air, a kite. Wind provided the aerodynamics. Does every collaboration need to be explained? She tied the string to the mailbox left the kite to float until morning. Every night this happens. She sleeps, I listen, darkness slides through us both.
The next morning the string still curved into the sky but the kite was gone. This was the morning newspapers announced the Mona Lisa was stolen. This was the morning it snowed in Los Angeles, the morning I wore gloves to pull from the sky fifty-three feet of frozen string.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 15:31:35 GMT -5
Poem of the Day: "A Short History of the Apple" by Dorianne Laux in The Book of Man [W.W. Norton]
The crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing through living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days. —Edward Bunyard, The Anatomy of Dessert, 1929
Teeth at the skin. Anticipation. Then flesh. Grain on the tongue. Eve's knees ground in the dirt of paradise. Newton watching gravity happen. The history of apples in each starry core, every papery chamber's bright bitter seed. Woody stem an infant tree. William Tell and his lucky arrow. Orchards of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels. Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew. Cedar apple rust. The apple endures. Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors. The first pip raised in Kazakhstan. Snow White with poison on her lips. The buried blades of Halloween. Budding and grafting. John Chapman in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward Expansion. Apple pie. American as. Hard cider. Winter banana. Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet by hives of Britain's honeybees: white man's flies. O eat. O eat.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 15:34:41 GMT -5
Poem of the Day: "Thought as Philosophical Torment" by Will Alexander
In the mirror of excessive drift there exist those values which exist within schisms within error wracked spectrums which glow by means of vapour above anti-dimensional obstruction
the visage of metrics tuned to a mesmeric lisp to a rancid facial dice thrown across ethers across 3 or 4 sierras or voids
so that each sculpting each prism advances the apparitional understanding to a macro-positional scalding which collapses which takes on the centigrade of absence bound to invisible comradery
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 18, 2011 15:43:18 GMT -5
EMILY DICKINSON POEMS: in The Poems of Emily Dickinson [Belknap Press]
A Bird came down the Walk (#328)
A Bird came down the Walk— He did not know I saw— He bit an Angleworm in halves And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass— And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all around— They looked like frightened Beads, I thought— He stirred his Velvet Head
Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam— Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon Leap, plashless as they swim.
A Man may make a Remark (#952)
A Man may make a Remark - In itself - a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark In dormant nature - lain -
Let us divide - with skill - Let us discourse - with care - Powder exists in Charcoal - Before it exists in Fire -
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree (#794)
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree - Another - on the Roof - A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves - And made the Gables laugh -
A few went out to help the Brook That went to help the Sea - Myself Conjectured were they Pearls - What Necklaces could be -
The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads - The Birds jocoser sung - The Sunshine threw his Hat away - The Bushes - spangles flung -
The Breezes brought dejected Lutes - And bathed them in the Glee - The Orient showed a single Flag, And signed the fête away -
A lane of Yellow led the eye (#1650) ]
A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict Or flower presume to show In that low summer of the West Impossible to know -
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 19, 2011 15:00:36 GMT -5
Today's Poem. Paradise Lost, Bk IV, Lines 639-52 by John Milton
Eve speaks to Adam With thee conversing I forget all time; All seasons, and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night With this her solemn bird and this fair moon, And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train: But neither breath of Morn when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, Or glittering star-light without thee is sweet.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 20, 2011 10:10:42 GMT -5
Today's Poem: "Night Songs" by Thomas Kinsella in Selected Poems [Wake Forest Univ. Press]
1
Now, as I sink in sleep, My heart is cut down, Nothing—poetry nor love— Achieving.
*
Turns again in my room, The crippled leopard. Paw-pad, configured Yellow light of his eyes, Pass, repass, repass. Quiet, my hand; he is tame. Soon, while I dream, will step And stir the sunken dawn.
2
Before I woke there entered in A woman with a golden skin That tangled with the light. A tang of orchards climbed the stair And dwindled in the waxen air, Crisping the midnight, And the white pillows of my bed On apple-tasted darkness fed. Weakened with appetite Sleep broke like a dish wherein A woman lay with golden skin.
Bonus Poem. "Drowsing over The Arabian Nights" by Thomas Kinsella.
I nodded. The books agree, one hopes for too much. It is ridiculous. We are elaborate beasts.
If we concur it is only in our hunger: the soiled gullet. And sleep’s airy nothing. And the moist matter of lust
—if the whole waste of women could be gathered like one pit under swarming Man, then all might act together.
And the agonies of death, as we enter our endless nights quickly, one by one, fire darting up to the roots of our hair.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 21, 2011 10:01:55 GMT -5
Today's Poem. "Mirrors" by Tada Chimako/trans. Jeffrey Angles in Forest of Eyes: Selected Poems of Tada Chimako[University of California Press]
The mirror is always slightly taller than I It laughs a moment after I laugh Turning red as a boiled crab I cut myself from the mirror with shears
*
When my lips draw close, the mirror clouds over And I vanish behind my own sighs Like an aristocrat hiding behind his crest Or a gangster behind his tattoos
*
Oh traveler, go to Lacedaemon and say that in the mirror, Graveyard of smiles, there is a single gravestone Painted white, thick with makeup Where the wind blows alone
Bonus Poems: "A Spray of Water: Tanka (one narcissus)" by Tada Chimako
one narcissus draws close to another like the only two adolescent boys in the universe
"A Spray of Water: Tanka (the hot water in) by Tada Chimako
the hot water in the abandoned kettle slowly cools still carrying the resentment of colder water
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 22, 2011 8:40:35 GMT -5
Today's Poem: "Because I could not stop for Death" (#712) by Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –
Bonus Poem: "Besides the Autumn poets sing" (#131) by Emily Dickinson
Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the Haze - A few incisive mornings - A few Ascetic eves - Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" - And Mr Thomson's "sheaves." Still, is the bustle in the brook - Sealed are the spicy valves - Mesmeric fingers softly touch The eyes of many Elves - Perhaps a squirrel may remain - My sentiments to share - Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind - Thy windy will to bear!
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 23, 2011 8:45:55 GMT -5
Today's Poem: "For Once, Then, Something" by Robert Frost in The Poetry of Robert Frost [Henry Holt & Co.]
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs Always wrong to the light, so never seeing Deeper down in the well than where the water Gives me back in a shining surface picture Me myself in the summer heaven godlike Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, Through the picture, a something white, uncertain, Something more of the depths—and then I lost it. Water came to rebuke the too clear water. One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something
Bonus Poem: "Out, Out--" by Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!" So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 24, 2011 12:07:49 GMT -5
Poem of the Day:
"America" by Herman Melville in The Poems of Herman Melville [Kent State Univ. Press]
I
Where the wings of a sunny Dome expand I saw a Banner in gladsome air— Starry, like Berenice's Hair— Afloat in broadened bravery there; With undulating long-drawn flow, As rolled Brazilian billows go Voluminously o'er the Line. The Land reposed in peace below; The children in their glee Were folded to the exulting heart Of young Maternity.
II
Later, and it streamed in fight When tempest mingled with the fray, And over the spear-point of the shaft I saw the ambiguous lightning play. Valor with Valor strove, and died: Fierce was Despair, and cruel was Pride; And the lorn Mother speechless stood, Pale at the fury of her brood.
III
Yet later, and the silk did wind Her fair cold for; Little availed the shining shroud, Though ruddy in hue, to cheer or warm A watcher looked upon her low, and said— She sleeps, but sleeps, she is not dead. But in that sleep contortion showed The terror of the vision there— A silent vision unavowed, Revealing earth's foundation bare, And Gorgon in her hidden place. It was a thing of fear to see So foul a dream upon so fair a face, And the dreamer lying in that starry shroud.
IV
But from the trance she sudden broke— The trance, or death into promoted life; At her feet a shivered yoke, And in her aspect turned to heaven No trace of passion or of strife— A clear calm look. It spake of pain, But such as purifies from stain— Sharp pangs that never come again— And triumph repressed by knowledge meet, Power delicate, and hope grown wise, And youth matured for age's seat— Law on her brow and empire in her eyes. So she, with graver air and lifted flag; While the shadow, chased by light, Fled along the far-brawn height, And left her on the crag.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 24, 2011 12:13:36 GMT -5
Some other Melville poems about the Civil War:
"Gettysburg" by Herman Melville
O Pride of the days in prime of the months Now trebled in great renown, When before the ark of our holy cause Fell Dagon down- Dagon foredoomed, who, armed and targed, Never his impious heart enlarged Beyond that hour; God walled his power, And there the last invader charged.
He charged, and in that charge condensed His all of hate and all of fire; He sought to blast us in his scorn, And wither us in his ire. Before him went the shriek of shells- Aerial screamings, taunts and yells; Then the three waves in flashed advance Surged, but were met, and back they set: Pride was repelled by sterner pride, And Right is a strong-hold yet.
Before our lines it seemed a beach Which wild September gales have strown With havoc on wreck, and dashed therewith Pale crews unknown- Men, arms, and steeds. The evening sun Died on the face of each lifeless one, And died along the winding marge of fight And searching-parties lone.
Sloped on the hill the mounds were green, Our centre held that place of graves, And some still hold it in their swoon, And over these a glory waves. The warrior-monument, crashed in fight, Shall soar transfigured in loftier light, A meaning ampler bear; Soldier and priest with hymn and prayer Have laid the stone, and every bone Shall rest in honor there.
"Shiloh: A Requiem" by Herman Melville
Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh-- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh-- The church so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there-- Foemen at morn, but friends at eve-- Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 25, 2011 9:42:14 GMT -5
Today's Poem: "Cameo One" by Michael McClure in Mysteriosos and Other Poems [New Directions]
WE HAVE GONE GONE. GONE in the hole where soul swells into nothing leaving solid space where profiles of gods and fairies are carved and finely polished by the clanking of trucks, thunder-shaking waves, and the taste of mangos.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 26, 2011 7:29:23 GMT -5
Poem of the Day.
"She Leaves Me Again, Six Months Later" by Collier Nogues in On the Other Side, Blue [Four Way Books]
The hillside was blocked with pens, horses of other colors
five or six to a pen, and one long fenced strip
from the base of the hill up, with dark brown horses flank to flank
not moving, but their necks craning over
each other's backs. They were looking towards
the dip at the top of the hill, and the stream running through it.
They were looking at what was on the other side,
which was my mother, whom I had just walked over the bridge.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 27, 2011 8:15:59 GMT -5
Poem for Today"Pocket Vampire" by Dorothy Barresi in American Fanatics [Univ. of Pittsburgh Press] I reconcile myself to need. To wanting stinging, aptest, seigneurial, pugnacious, handsome as always cracking wise in my blood things, I think—by pulp supply of roots or tearing teeth, and/or ardor for what I vow against but carry always like my secret self, the bitten bride, to rat-consecrated, moon-wharf glum's glee in gotten-up peignoir dripping not daisies but rotten, long-aborning lickable black roses, the smaller the better to hide my privacy in: it's pretty good getting, that bite I flirt but never stick my neck out for. Yes, Your Woundship. Would a quibble count? Just one lick? Damn me. Then, back into the bidden, unblessed dark with you, my tiny prince of dirty comity. Sin simulacrum Bonus Poem" Lamia " by John Keats
Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent; Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear. The colours all inflam'd throughout her train, She writh'd about, convuls'd with scarlet pain: A deep volcanian yellow took the place Of all her milder-mooned body's grace; And, as the lava ravishes the mead, Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede; Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars: So that, in moments few, she was undrest Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, And rubious-argent: of all these bereft, Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 28, 2011 9:09:38 GMT -5
Poem for Today "Interlude" by Edith Sitwell in Collected Poems [Overlook Press]
Amid this hot green glowing gloom A word falls with a raindrop's boom...
Like baskets of ripe fruit in air The bird-songs seem, suspended where
Those goldfinches—the ripe warm lights Peck slyly at them—take quick flights.
My feet are feathered like a bird Among the shadows scarcely heard;
I bring you branches green with dew And fruits that you may crown anew
Your whirring waspish-gilded hair Amid this cornucopia—
Until your warm lips bear the stains And bird-blood leap within your veins.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 29, 2011 12:34:15 GMT -5
Poem of the Day:
"On Summer" by George Moses Horton in Te Black Bard of North Carolina [Univ. of North Carolina Press]
Esteville begins to burn; The auburn fields of harvest rise; The torrid flames again return, And thunders roll along the skies.
Perspiring Cancer lifts his head, And roars terrific from on high; Whose voice the timid creatures dread; From which they strive with awe to fly.
The night-hawk ventures from his cell, And starts his note in evening air; He feels the heat his bosom swell, Which drives away the gloom of fear.
Thou noisy insect, start thy drum; Rise lamp-like bugs to light the train; And bid sweet Philomela come, And sound in front the nightly strain.
The bee begins her ceaseless hum, And doth with sweet exertions rise; And with delight she stores her comb, And well her rising stock supplies.
Let sportive children well beware, While sprightly frisking o’er the green; And carefully avoid the snare, Which lurks beneath the smiling scene.
The mistress bird assumes her nest, And broods in silence on the tree, Her note to cease, her wings at rest, She patient waits her young to see.
The farmer hastens from the heat; The weary plough-horse droops his head; The cattle all at noon retreat, And ruminate beneath the shade.
The burdened ox with dauntless rage, Flies heedless to the liquid flood, From which he quaffs, devoid of gauge, Regardless of his driver's rod.
Pomaceous orchards now expand Their laden branches o'er the lea; And with their bounty fill the land, While plenty smiles on every tree.
On fertile borders, near the stream, Now gaze with pleasure and delight; See loaded vines with melons teem— 'Tis paradise to human sight.
With rapture view the smiling fields, Adorn the mountain and the plain, Each, on the eve of Autumn, yields A large supply of golden grain.
Bonus Poem: "Early Affection" by George Moses Horton
I lov'd thee from the earliest dawn, When first I saw thy beauty's ray, And will, until life's eve comes on, And beauty's blossom fades away; And when all things go well with thee, With smiles and tears remember me. I'll love thee when thy morn is past, And wheedling gallantry is o'er, When youth is lost in ages blast, And beauty can ascend no more, And when life's journey ends with thee, O, then look back and think of me. I'll love thee with a smile or frown, 'Mid sorrow's gloom or pleasure's light, And when the chain of life runs down, Pursue thy last eternal flight, When thou hast spread thy wing to flee, Still, still, a moment wait for me. I'll love thee for those sparkling eyes, To which my fondness was betray'd, Bearing the tincture of the skies, To glow when other beauties fade, And when they sink too low to see, Reflect an azure beam on me.
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 30, 2011 6:38:14 GMT -5
Poem of the Day "more shadow" by Priscilla Becker.
as the sun descended and the world fell in line across the water in a thin spectrum I watched a shadow cross the crusted sweating snow searching for the one it was, the space it would someday fill
the anxious outline flit across the surface like an animal let loose who soon gets lost and stops
and strains its neck, its frantic eyes scrape from side to side
the shadow, like the bony field stood still and watched the dwindled light, like a figure wrapped in cloth--- unrecognizeable, generic
soon the thin upper slice hung on its side like a loose spoke
and the shadow fell asleep beneath it
the next time the sun came up, it didn't know where it was like a tongue that can't be traced to its source or a song whose sound circles its form
an amorphous throat lurked the field it answered its cry with its cry
soon, it didn't matter where I looked, how much I tried, if I condensed or pumped my mind, if I held my hand or left it alone
It was like, not really like, like keys scraping misfit holes
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Post by Flying Horse on Jul 31, 2011 10:12:35 GMT -5
www.iconarchive.com/icons/simiographics/mixed/32/Book-icon.png [/img] Poem for Today. "more shadow" by Priscilla Becker as the sun descended and the world fell in line across the water in a thin spectrum I watched a shadow cross the crusted sweating snow searching for the one it was, the space it would someday fill the anxious outline flit across the surface like an animal let loose who soon gets lost and stops and strains its neck, its frantic eyes scrape from side to side the shadow, like the bony field stood still and watched the dwindled light, like a figure wrapped in cloth--- unrecognizeable, generic soon the thin upper slice hung on its side like a loose spoke and the shadow fell asleep beneath it the next time the sun came up, it didn't know where it was like a tongue that can't be traced to its source or a song whose sound circles its form an amorphous throat lurked the field it answered its cry with its cry soon, it didn't matter where I looked, how much I tried, if I condensed or pumped my mind, if I held my hand or left it alone It was like, not really like, like keys scraping misfit holes
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