Afterthought 623—A Song for Him
Makes nothing much a difference to me one way or your way, be it chance or whim, if anything I'd show you's what you'll get to see except what about him? I knew all along we wouldn't last later than two, maybe three, surely no more, so before our morning's calling gets itself cast aside, what was he for? Makes nothing much a reason or a rhyme how free it must feel to you so off on your own kept up by your place in life keeping time until you have his alone. |
Afterthought 262—Skerwink Trail
Trinity's waters embrace the rocks, whip salt and sage into crowberry and Tuckamore to perfume our reverent steps into her wild. Without Dean I'd not've made it. My hip would've kept me from what we're here for — to make it where the Music Box stands piled. Otters!—yes, we saw them, like was said we might. And dolphins close to the shore! No poetry could've been more perfectly styled. Next year, you. Join us at Sherwink's Head, you and the child. |
Afterthought 173—A Doppelgänger’s Complaint
If I possessed such magic as might weave vibrations through the wind such as dare dance the stars through myths and legends we believe, my spells would cast our night its own romance in gold and silver circles wrapped in ice as delicate as light's transparent veil revealing word in love's most secret vice and love retracing blood's worst wayward trail. I don't. The surest song I try to raise falls flat, chokes on its bone, avoids its own reflection, pastes in hoary grays on grays, finds beauty in its hemorrhoids. Obloquy suits the ear, no? Let each word be child unknown, unwritten and unheard. |
Afterthought 175—High Calling
As easily released as a breath held back, conformable to death. I along with his vision suspended in his version, am apprehended. At so early an end easily blinded by perfection, thus minded. By no strange coincidence's cross of sin on sin, counted loss. |
Afterthought 27—Encomia
No word or act you've done is meant for ill — who tells else traps herself in her own lies. To yours thrice flow your blessings, as you will. Every promise made you will fulfill. Who turns away your honor turns unwise — no word or act you've done is meant for ill. No miracle desired's outside your skill — who mocks can't know the magic in your eyes. To yours thrice flow your blessings, as you will. Unfailing — whom you first loved is loved still — who chooses else accepts false compromise. No word or act you've done is meant for ill. The life in you's impossible to kill — who wishes not finds only empty skies. To yours thrice flow your blessings, as you will. Your word stands sure beyond the last until — who won't accept you's gone before she dies. No word or act you've done is meant for ill — To yours thrice flow your blessings, as you will. |
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