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Poetry archive #7

April 30, 2007

In which I continue to inflict my old poems on my readers.

Sweets and bitters: an Herball
There is no tongue for my heart’s manuscript
Where potent inks have shed their reprimand,
Etching spectral gardens as they dripped,
Whose pages turn themselves. This very hand
In red, and black, and silver, brushed
A lily’s likeness, when this hand was young,
When this hand was all my speech and mime
And a stranger to itself and all
And would gather by night by the ogre wall
Such simples when moon and blood were hushed.

The shapes may be spoken. The rose’s velvet line
Of petals enclosing petals is even trite.
But what images common to our sun
Could summon that certain other light?

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