Dear child, why
is it still, along the pillow
this hand of yours half
open on the brightness
thrown by the lamp
anemone in
water the current
once passed through
In sleep you answer
that life catches
against the edge of
its own likeness
vein ever blue
in the body's
marble drift
... posted with permission of the author
1 comment:
What is "it" in the question, "why is it still"?. I can guess, but why should I need to, except for the awkward and pointless line breaks, parenthetical notions and metaphors so oddly placed and juxtaposed?
The "body's marble drift" is a marvelous phrase. But hardly redemptive.
What nonsensical syntax for so little illumination.
Mary, it's time you found your voice. I loathe this artfullness.
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