Thursday, November 29, 2007

“Hell it is, Pop” version 3

Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread

a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,

the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.

Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.

How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,

range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.

Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.

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