Tuesday, January 16, 2018

FOR INSTANCE—

Compared to the pitiless pits of space
that reign after,
knotted

and exhausted
and opaque with the traces—
the silences

weakly abiding
before words are spoken—
are innocent and noble;

perfect riddles
to be
solved only by ordinary time,

virginal vistas: fresh breeze and
seascape panorama,
small and soft pools, clear—but quavering,

alien, uninhabitable—
because
doomed

to last only
in those dampest
delicate folds of our memory.

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