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We Did Things More
We did things more dulcet, more marionette. There were equivocations--usual
modems--all sorts of agos. Then--in time--the needed accretion.
How much like a star we were, light as blazons. Nomad of a thousand paths,
surely there are tempers more like yours, acrid and fulsome, whose articulated
measure is a queenly Entire. Then we counted our fingerprinted petals--kept
dryer
in a pale tin--rose and carnation--loved, attended, tamed.
Be attention, dear border, you wander too far. Your music is dissonant
sometimes, calamitous fugues and fallow, echoed tones, you are turning
too many
melodies into maunder. It seems we are creature, we devour and leave.
But when
late light turns the leaves gold, when the red pine offers its armfuls
of snow, we are
not hunger and perjure. In that moment (blemish and blossom) we are gaze.
--Karen Volkman
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Originally published in the December 1997/
January 1998 issue of Boston Review
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