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Poetry

We say flight of the imagination,
but stand ankle-deep in silt. We say deep
life of the mind, but seal the stone to keep
the tomb untouched, O Stillness. Nearly all
we find to say we speak for the most part
unawares, what little bit we think to say
unmoved, O Great Enormity Unmoved.

Brief thaw turned ragged March extending, O
Lost Cause, into yet another ragged April, so.
Brief shoots of new green trampled underfoot
by sleet, and lo, accumulating weather, moot,
sore-clipped—spring flowers tattered with the cold.

Lord, we say, have mercy on us, by which
each idiot more nearly means to plead,
O Silent One Unspeaking, save me.


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