Sunday, April 26, 2009

Speech's Intaglio

No, let me speak--I've sifted the lights from your hair,
Spread your rye with the stars' jelly,
Shucked the ghosts that seal your eyes' wax
And cast the husks upon the cirrus--
Still that marl-eyed rag-toothed ermine
Quick as a sub-pleural fire-stream runs
Roiling through the burrows of my body,
And when your voice comes to me over the sea
As the copper of morning is bitten
By sunlight's nitric acid,
Wings of your breath
Bevel the edges of the air,
Grating flakes of padparadscha
Which glint upon the fires of your froth.

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