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Boy at the Border of His Own Allegory

A boy phones from a Frankish-
Speaking manor in Flanders, in the rain,

      To tell me he has a shotgun
      Muzzle to the inside

Of his Romance-speaking
Mouth. I tell him, take it from that ragged

      North Sea lair and put it to
      The milk and honey coffer

Of your chest and hold it silo-
Still and reddening there.

      It isn't speaking that you wanted to be quit

      Of, but only just to stop the sadiron

      Heavy flooding of the figure

      Of your inconstant, northing heart.

Like a madrigal, a pastoral
In the pocket of my houndstooth vest,

You are the only beauty in this
Celestial torture I will call my own.

—Lucie Brock-Broido



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