Sitting as though suspended from something, cool in my deck chair,
Unlooked-on, otherworldly.
There is no acquittal, there is no body of light and elegy. There is no body of fire.
It is as though an angel had walked across the porch, A conflagration enhanced, extinguished, then buried again,
No pardon, no nourishment.
It’s March, and starvelings feed from my mouth.
Ubi amor, ibi oculus,
love sees what the eye sees
Repeatedly, more or less.
It certainly seems so here, the gates of the arborvitae
The gates of mercy look O look they feed from my mouth.
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