from “The Bed of Music”
and others we suffered to love us; one or two
who sated themselves without thinking. We
absolve them for staking the gamblers and
rogues of dispassion, the shysters of gossip.
It takes us all day and half the night. We are
spent as the hunter’s cartridges– the music has
blessed us beyond our strength to forgive,
We are blank– and thin as the haze of stars.
Add comment July 6th, 2005