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From “Romanticisms”

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Mortal oddment, there’s no wish in the blood
But beat, but stay gift-strong, but make demands
To keep within veins this ore’s diffuse gold,
These voices that know without being known —
These voices that riddle thought with herself,
Ridicule thought in her flimsy eternal
Gowns a child can tear in half   with a breath —
That chorus arterial, unbribable,
Blowing song through self as a child blows
A dandelion apart —
                                      All those weeds? —
Thistle’s down and thistle’s thorn, dumb yellow
Globes below that bind grass to their hollow creed,
Wind’s meager flute, sere song, the whole field’s late
Doom? Heart-blood? Voices, you? That’s my portrait? —


I kept repeating, repeating, kept re —
To repair, to repair my, or not my — the
Mind’s bower, but whose — who mines urgency —
Or whose mind regrets all those violets rooted
In violence — or I only mean thought, in thought,
Not violence, thinking, and the stupid leaf
Unfolding, mine, mine, mind. Here’s the plot
All untended: Psyche and, and — some thief
Unnamed — no, some unnamed leaf, and the sun,
Yes, only the sun that through open eyes
Turns the livid leaf green. Not leaf. Meant wound —
Or is it wind, is it wind that split in half   by
A gnat, by a blade of grass, always heals its gale —
What is the wound that is being healed, healed —

Source: Poetry (February 2013)

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This poem originally appeared in the February 2013 issue of Poetry magazine

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From “Romanticisms”

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