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And as I spoke your name aloud-soft, invisible wings, fluttering,

ascension in that somber air behind me.

To become the ancient characters

of the dream.

Oriental caricature of innocent pearls, white,

and apple tree leaves,

boughs the colours of sea foam at night.

That sweeter miracle-

letting it all come through me

like this.

I’ve never pleaded my heart into

a promised beating.

And visions for death reside the later morning dream-

I’m running a gauntlet never meant to be.

Summer

1995

Revised

1/15/2009

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  • @t-byron-k
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