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A rare thing hung in a glass case, Like an open wing strung out between pins, It was a shroud, Mended ad infinitum, The distilled rising of a cloud, Butterflies bearing up the dead. How did this map of tenderness survive? A patchwork apron hewn with a needle and thread. An old Gestapo Kino plays films about Terezin. For what I did not know, I cannot mourn, Yet unformed words are beginning to form... It was as pale as dried cornflowers, Bleached to a gossamer sail in places, The stitches like railway tracks over blue fields.
Lilac breath (lost hope and the arms that once held me) in a paradise of feelings he lies across my breast a little bag of bones pulsating with hot secrets. His serious succulent mouth defies all fear of death. With nonchalant love he knuckles into my heart. My kisses like pearls from deep within are strung round and around his skin.
Like pearls, rubies, tin cans, bones, gold, you left your words embedded on the page.
I could eat your poems in a clutch like a fox stealing eggs.
I offer you my treasure; old roses stone hands newspaper faces an urn of tears my watercolour set.
Seated at the iron table we might smile, exchange things. Lift a dark yellow peach or almonds from a bowl.
I sing to you across the dark waters of the lake I sing inside your death and your tenderness like an echo comes singing back to rest.
The rags of my dreams Decorate the bare walls With blisters of colour; I will have cried that day I will have swept the floor then. Sometimes things fall into place With an unimagined sweetness, My goodbye keys on the chair The copper waterfall of the beech tree falling outside And the feelings inside Growing like fibres in the woven cloth. The postman slithers the letters through the letterbox, They fall like a hand of cards upon the mat. The cat licks herself patiently, All wait for the dreams to come, To be sewn with brilliant thread, To lie around me Like a cloak of love, To keep me from the dead.
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