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The Poet I follow a shadow through a forest hosting trees of gray bones and brittle life, and movement of only dust. My nostrils cry in protest to the oil smell of long-trodden, sullen earth and still I follow A forgotten bead from a strand broken of age. Though no other creature stir, I hear spirit-laden, evening voices Promising that one perfect thing. Soon the shadow slows in tarry and lefts a feathered, inky finger to a sky thick and heavy from air breathed through too many lungs. My eyes follow the infinite, milky thread. Past fleeing winds over broken fields, To see a translucent, golden sphere levitating and illuminating words I have touched. And breathed. And quilled response To allusiveness engraved on moist and thirsty eyes. As I know with senses all save one The rhythm of their song lulls my weary weight to rest. The inky finger touches slowly my lids, closing dilated, seeking eyes. I dream. In and of a forest lush with shame and glory. In a sense of place seeping truth from abreast, I lay on webs of softly rotting, dewy leaves Suckling tranquil pulp of laborious seed, none to be ever lonely more. I groan with spirit-laden, evening voice promises of that one perfect thing, and look away to the birthing East But feel a soul’s lusty mate in inky West skies. |
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