Poems

In the Heart of Time

Time lets its subtle depths
half-open.  (Doors
shielding one another; pushing open, one to another; the spoors
and traces of the sea.)  This autumn
of kindling wood, drifts of leaves.  At its heart,
forests of pleasure where the light shines through; its ivies, involved:
gold:
light in leaf everywhere:  fire raked and rooted, a metallic flowering,
and the finest moss,
incandescent.
 

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