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PuncuateIn cold earthless placesAgainst my door seeing outRides the thing which is most myself(in myself)To color in shape and body I mean nothing moreThanThe punctuation--abbreviated and final.But around on the other side where the throbbing lies sullenUnder an old frostI am the quotation mark; the beginning of something great.What is this confusion of metaphor,This slipping up and underWhere someone has let the rain inThrough an open door—is thatFollowedBy the mark of a question which can openLidless things unopenable?This?
DribbleYesterday in any color seems to dribble dabble down,Thistle hearts and inside hobbled where the candied carouselRolls and rambles inside over shadows bled deep puddles downListen, faster, there's the coming under further sand and stone.Hear remember tiger's eye the coldencore come quickly, come.Winging beats a fluttered shattered throbble hobbing skyward bound.When was found still night scales silver, who inside was stilling findWhat behind thin crystal pieces slither lather coating crimeNever yesterday and now—horses bred and browning timeRinging singing fast as sleeping careful coming shimmershineOvershadow river mending bend and break a knot refineIntertwine the be and being whosoever ripples rhyme
Point of ViewMilly had nearly choked on flower fumes before they allowed her a short walk outside. Outside was musty and tight as attic air, but there was no hanging cloud of fading roses and lilies already stale. Her skin had grown close inside, as if she was curling like the browning petals, and she had feared her own decay might begin to overpower the reek of the flowers.He had waited, Milly realized once she was seated on the cold stone steps of the church with the light of the world shrinking and slipping into dusk around her, until the world had reached its heart's strain. Now, on the teetering edge of autumn but just before the heat actually began to decline, the sky and earth and whole of nature seemed to throb her mightiest and most desperately—a dying heart who remembers hot life but whose blood has already run cold. With plenty of deep breaths, Milly had forgotten the flowers and was watching the black line that swallowed the sun. There were no mountains, not even any trees,