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To believe in a world of beauty: O
says the moon. The screech of the
birds answering the belief, the interjection
of the moon. A world of beauty,
silv’ry moon behind all of it, the light
turns to measure the crying
of birds, their crying inches toward
light, when they mesh, what
will occur? What world of beauty
occur, those black daubings spattered
on the moon revolve around
a stately ugliness, churn, settle.
Flight. My eye reflects a simple
bird-like movement, dumb hanging
world, lost in its bitterness of white, a
sad man’s face hacked out of it.
II
Grey settles
down, pearl lights
sway against the branches
that the wind
should sway
and out there is
love, soaked by
wind covered
in loneliness
but she knows
that love is not
grey and hangs to
the pearl gleam
of the lights that light
the park, the trees
they turn to marble
mocking spring and
all that saccharine
of green, that blast
of color, green for
envy, or the monster
whose head is truly
frightening, but each one
knows, a sight to look upon
or else our hearts may
stiffen to the marble
trees that should sway
in these auguries
of snow, that stand in
this scarred season, O
that stand so
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