Thursday, November 25, 2010

Amid drenched roses given, now dry.

Be not discountenanced if the knowing know
We rose from rapture but an hour ago.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sonnet no. XXVIII, Collected Sonnets Perennial 1970

The aching ear bends to silence.
And the eye waters to see more.

How dutifully I bled my senses of their ease,
Their years of water.

My instinct with nominal things is to claim them
As memory.

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