Monday, January 18, 2010



Your brown voice, a gorgeous promise faintly, lightly dresses joy.
A bright movement across the sea to the house of morning, you try so hard not to be.
Nearer talk: is it enough? The answer is that at the end of the earth music music music will be no more.
To whom is the slow sweet dance given? To him in the cave disliked and lost in his pale waking.
What song has been brought to the laughing door? One of tearing waves and frozen mouths.
You were admitted, yourself a shell, held to the ear of the ocean. You were a waiter, you waited in the waves.
You and your accompanist wove the net of weary gold and, in joyful wisdom, cast it lightly across the body of life,
Where pretty misses and their hard of hearing gentlemen promised each other admittance into the gap.
While you wait you forget. While you wait you hear voices.
You wait.

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