Monday, December 29, 2014

THE STARRY NIGHT

Of all of the kisses
she'd ever dared

slip him—this one
was 
by some measure—the cruelest

as it seemed—
almost perversely

to do the most
good for 
that sickness 
which throttled him—that

there is 
no knowledge,

only a little
glimmer;

a sympathy 
for her intelligence—

as confusion and complexity
are each
dissolved slowly,

gradually,
and easily—
into the 
very same simplicity 

feebly
called—sky.

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