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  THE PAIN CLINIC  

Part 1   PAGE ONE   Page Two

Part 2   Page One   Page Two  

Part 3   Page One    Page Two    

 

   
  THE PAIN CLINIC   Part 1   PAGE ONE    
    ‘Tell me, how may I know him, how adore

From whom I have that thus I move and live,

And feel that I am happier than I know’.

I leave you after two years, an affair

Of the heart something resolute I dare

Not resolve, the mind is the spirit's limb

And the search of sojourner or pilgrim

Towards or from that of saint and martyr

Whether history or now or another,

Grace is the spirit's breath, grace is the heart.

‘The light of life’ as Bede said but the start

Of a poet, that lodging of the end,

Outlasting this world, truth without amend.

Between the tombstones of St. Cuthbert and

St. Bede between destiny and England,

The stone sheared for nothing and Cranmer burned

And from your closed city a poet turned.

 

 

The end is illusion and lasts until

Magnolia blushing into April,

Fastened white each closure holds to remain

Fragility whiter than April rain

After a storm when blue alternates more

Nature's irretrievable metaphor.

And the blossom of an April night is

The colour of day and diminishes

Only eternity, to tell of love

After or before is but to tell of

The rain that dingy blooms on branching pall

A shadow natural as betrayal.

The days love used, from each enough to bring

The magnolia's storm white opening.

 

 

I leave behind a poetry from life,

Words and their waiting, words for day and night,

And I have been a mother and a wife

And darkness flaunting seen from depths of light

When dawn's reflection turns the earth below,

The lasting rise of night trees plunged to snow.

Beethoven mapped time a territory fit

For sojourn of the diffident spirit

And Schubert a lyric for love's folly,

Yet love is enough to outlast return

Enough also for love's celibacy

Love is the spirit and its end alone.

I hardly noticed but a love divine

That when Bach spoke at last was lodged with mine.

 

 

These days and their kind will not come again,

From the limits of language to explain

Without fear how indifference breaks blue

Among stripped trees residual and new,

Winter's startle is on the origin,

Without love should I know how to begin.

Wisdom is a journey back to the child

Rudimentary without end and wild

Once from an unknown travelled horizon

Where shadows then were but the bleak unshone

Of this world and a stone to point the way.

When, before men talking, I tried to say

Of love before I left, but to no end,

With me calmly suddenly came a friend.

 

 

What is poetry between then and now

Except that you looked long at the landau,

Stooping quietly watching everything

Wondering whether anything lasting.

I thought neither morning nor afternoon

Was a casual departure, how soon

Must the landau leave, you were not to care,

Or for its passengers kept waiting there

And the gathered and curious women

Remarking, and all the while you watched them

The sun was high and dark over midday

Privet and darkness on the surface lay.

How soon must the landau leave, quietly

Waiting, after you could not say to me.

 

 

Love is a part of Grace as poetry

At the last distance of eternity

That sublime and inconsolable reach

Where man must first take his leave of Nature.

Love is its own, the only eidolon

And lonely as man's leave taking among

Friends and among the stars of his journey,

It is poetry's certain and tardy

Harbinger, timeless in exultation

Before itself long after love has gone.

And from humiliation and despair

I kept the white snow to form in his hair,

Love in the holy blue of a new dawn

Is certain as Keats' Ruth among the corn.

 

 

Hold your hurt deep as the body bereft,

As the novelist writes her own story,

To leave what is lost, to keep what is left

Is a woman becoming her glory.

Branches pull with smoke drawn from a willow

Ascending and stars transfix their morning,

Art cannot imitate Nature to throw

As nothing imagination's awning

Far over the high and casual dark of

Winter trees, as nothing and remaining

The stars at daybreak or a woman's love.

Love that is memory's last desiring,

The smoke drifts downward though love unrealised

Must flow as the willow and never dies.

 

 

Joy came shyly and when all else was gone,

After thirty years' searching we were one,

Timeless the heart the seamless difference,

Joy is the knowledge and experience.

I give the learnéd my last vanity

To wear the mantle of humility,

For to live is to be ready to die,

Joy is the only earthly answer why,

Nature in time and art is beauty's truth

And truth is the joy between man and earth.

No longer to know the poet in me

Nor all the laurels of eternity

For I am the sound of an outworn word,

New as the listening I never heard.

 

 

An Irish immigrant in Coburg Street

Gave birth she could not know it would be meet

That the Nobel Prize nineteen forty eight

Was that evening given to Eliot.

In Leeds behind Lewis's for three years

The sounds of the synagogue reached my ears,

Over Brudenell Road I was to know

The permanent anatomy of snow,

Survival but the wind upon a wall

That for some escape is impossible.

And the early Fifties flickered neon

By the white wall of Torre Road station,

Unnavigable the repetition

The darkness between self and horizon.

 

 

To keep alive the suddenness of love,

The memory that poetry dreams of,

To receive, though isolate and untold,

Nature from the reflected mirror's hold

Is to have known with an equivocal

Heart the knowledge yet of good and evil.

And unwept in Eden these stars once shone

And the light from a jet plane pales among

Them, poetry is love's diminishing.

The end is an infinite reflection,

Distance without shadow or beginning

And unlit far as the constellation

Of a single star or an unlit sea,

And love is to approach infinity.

 

 

With nothing to go on but my own heart,

Untaught, I made a poetry apart,

Old words and their welding to new courage,

Found a truth lost at the end of knowledge.

Poetry is love loud enough to hear,

Joy the difference of a timeless fear,

At the leave-taking a poet is told

And the last look backward out of this world

Is to salvage for its prodigal worth

With a poetry between man and earth.

Life is the spirit and its denial,

The space of an echo and listening,

Where the mind and heart are tongues in a trial

Of words to speak the spirit's suffering.

 

 

Man’s inability to interpret

Nature is her legacy, a poet

Must learn how to stand in supplication

And with nothing to bring but a notion

Of the senses, intrepid, in waiting,

Just to know her and know her desiring.

Then her epiphany usurps the mind

And leaves the temporal man behind,

Yet restless always, outside my own day,

Sometimes life in absolution will lay

With me, and the poet urgent between

Folly and Nature's passion to redeem,

Yet, and in the way of love, receives life

With all the trembling wonder of a wife.

 

 

Early November poplar leaves swathed far

And remnant on London's light green smoke are

Still formal in a late sunlight, moving

With a certain airlessness and breathing

With a little breathlessness, tremulous

As human diminution. But surface

Leaf, unlike man, is buttressed from within,

Only the highest leaves are not given,

Topmost of the Lombardy and its last

Configuration where a leaf is fast

Held as a truth, as a man at the end,

Darker the poplar than night is darkened.

And the alien corn needed no forlorn

To toll to my sad self by Keats forborne.

 

 

If beauty is truth, truth is no more than

Time's journeyman seen as a Grecian urn,

Truth is this world and neither columnar

Evening within the last darkened poplar

Leaves, when light is yet preliminary

And stillness a delta form as only

The Lombardy's column of paper leaf

Without wind or rain, where stillness and earth

Burn, nor the firmament of memory,

For love is the spirit's reality

And the last look backward out of this world.

If truth were known, love would remain untold

And Meaning but a Grecian urn, other

Than the time of memory or Nature

Or love.

 

 

The poplar levels a dross of

Stars and fixed eternal they tell of love

With a poet's indeterminate hand

Or the spirit they alone understand,

The moments of the asphodel are few

As the colour of day that Marlowe knew.

Forever before are the pine stars hung,

And that lodging of the end left among,

A landau's possible finality,

Its truth but the spirit's futility

Seen as the sun in sojourn in a dream,

As love seen when enervate betrayal

Is love, random as the spirit between,

From truth betrayed, truth is made possible.

 

 

Truth neither knowledge nor experience

Knows and time converges on the difference,

Time before itself has laid its burden

On me, days as the pine black stars spiral

Downwards and the distance of that region

Called truth is truth itself and lasts until

The dawn that blooms its passing on the bough,

Meaning may be no more than the landau,

From the equation of life and the earth

A poet and a man can answer truth.

Love is not love of another only,

The space of the spirit and its journey,

Though time should rear itself from horizon,

As such will I hold love from illusion.

 

 

I was neither poet nor that evening

Your daughter over the phone, by morning

But a woman become and you had died

And given me to the world as a bride,

And such I shall be, though as a widow

I journey the ruins of fallen snow.

Only the stars remain familiar

And to draw a first few from the further

Unlit or an evening's hesitation

At the sidewalk of London's far neon

Is enough as the known unwritten word,

The fallen snow over Brudenell Road,

Only love is first known in a world where

Once falling snow was curling in his hair.

 

 

Then the epiphany sometimes after

Hours and the day's accustomed dullness wears

Through and coyly surging makes from laughter

And tears, yet new reality and bears

On the earth's back news of its memory.

And to receive even at the distance

Of time, beyond night and day and history,

After the knowledge and experience,

Is to hear as a child unheard listening

And to see with eyes out of this world

Where the space between Nature transcending

And immanent joy are the words untold,

Where man is left with nothing but to find

And to tell of the little left behind.

 

 

Between hearing and memory once heard,

Sometimes only silence hears with the will

Of poetry harnessed to its last word,

While the mind is left to implore until

The heart is first known, ripened from remorse,

Its refuge but the wind upon a wall,

Imagination is the last recourse

A reparation after joy unstill.

Joy is neither nemesis nor hubris,

Existing in time's isolate design

And lost as its desiring and stasis,

Joy is a poetry no longer mine.

The end is memory's first testament,

Frail as life when light strikes, its argument.

 

 

More than thought such is the spirit of man,

Derelict wind over level spaces,

The end or the words for time alone can

Pull through and sometimes the spirit faces

Itself, random and new, the way the day

Blooms eternal from branching darkening.

It goes before and has nowhere to lay

Its head, an echo of time aligning

Much as the sun on March forsythia

Tilts the firmament to a blue below.

Memory more than its own idea

Apprehends the spirit in its first flow

Of joy both lost and won from each last search,

Then is the shadow but a passing reach.

 

 

When I was last at Wentworth Place, the end

Of my father's life was unimagined,

That night in Hampstead near the end of June,

Nine months at most you died to everyone.

'I'm watching the pain level', her final

Words remain, remain uncontrollable.

He dies 'Looking only in to the eyes

Of nuns', he dies 'A blessing in disguise'

Quite suddenly at the hands of a fast

Driver can anyone recall his last

Words something I can remember nothing.

'But don't you think his death was a blessing

In disguise,' I was unable to tell

You father, 'I'm watching the pain level.’

My father was unable to be told.

 

 

How can I write without Him who made me,

Without whom my days are now as nothing.

Enough it was to wait for poetry

To struggle with the heart and its meaning,

Here I wait for I know not how to find

Him or how to follow without a star

To steer by at the masthead of my mind

From those that burn through a darkened poplar,

Reminding me with their heat that I live

Over levels of tidal undertow

As nothing more than a need to believe,

Between air and earth a wind to follow.

Here I wait for I know not where He goes,

Death is a woman in beautiful clothes.

 

 

Innocence contains its own betrayal

As April lies uneasy on the bough,

Black where the reaches of a poplar pale

Against necessity or here and now.

When words are facts and cannot be unsaid,

Poetry must learn to write itself, then

Can the spirit speak as the open dead

To those to come, of the unconfessed men

Who need only themselves and rise or fall

And know enough of the range of the heart

From the passion of their own betrayal

To that innocence at the spirit's start.

Morning makes shadows from blossoms as few,

April breaking is a blur over blue.

 

 

April is the poet's month, alternate

With the lasting once of its own wildness

When evening's moving rapids flare a late

Horizon and the day's distance and less

Than its light left in a storm of poplar

Leaves to flood black over an April rain.

Splintered boughs are the colour of a far

Time and ransom for a rosary's gain,

Perish and bloom the cherry and apple

As cloud in a blue tumult to become.

April and infinite over evil

And blossom yet poetry's opened womb,

So the word born as briefly to defy

Must sing of its forbears and never die.

 

 

The world is smaller now that you are gone,

Time, that mirror image of horizon,

Waits in the wings at journey's end and makes

A mockery of destiny and breaks,

Imagination's fugitive breaks and

Falls as the mind's shadow over England.

Poetry matters, before you without

Words and less afraid an old man about

To die could not be told, would not be told,

The heart cannot hold, only the words hold.

No longer a daughter I watch a storm

Clouding low over Cholsey and Pangbourne,

But before it breaks such cloud waits, enough,

Unlike time, to gather form or the ruff

Of a Tudor king.

 

 

So many are the nights at the world's end

And with nothing to show to a new day,

Dear heart, poetry alone cannot lend

Hope for that which is too far off to say.

The watch listens as the condemned must wait,

Imagination runs the mind to ground,

Often is the heart itself and too late

For poetry's mercury to be found.

The words always existed, their author

Time alone, life the waiting yet to be,

And the spirit has nothing to confer

Higher than a wind levelling the sea.

Yet known unknown the diffident spirit

And the consolation for its retreat.

 

 

The times when poetry seems to answer

Nothing and that written is held in doubt,

And Nature is not always an offer

Of refuge for the mind with no way out.

The heart remains in an open entrance,

Vacated and sudden the room is found,

That unleashed sojourner the spirit once,

Its loss as its desiring and uncrowned.

April wind moves in the space of nature,

Clearing still cloud from a face of marble

And the poet’s heart dictates a metre,

Resolute as the knowledge of evil

Where even the spirit can be afraid

And poetry and prophecy are made.

 

 

And so my father went to the Selby

Road, sent out high on morphia to be

Killed and some say he tried to move away

As though he had something to do that day,

Afterwards drawn on the coroner's plan

His shopping bag where it lay and the man.

His conversation was almost cheerful,

No one thought anything remarkable,

And the relatives, even as he hurled

Between until surgery and this world,

And the relatives, and the veteran,

One of the few to come through Burma, can

Pull through, and the relatives said you were

Terminal that once you were my father.

 

 

To fear the self is to suffer evil

Both in its knowledge and experience,

Enough to remain though the spirit fail,

Vulnerable even as innocence.

Random once, as joy inherits the earth,

Its language the beauty of truth's fable,

Found with a hallmark outlasting Keats' truth

To form proof of the spirit's betrayal.

A jet soars not more surely to the sky,

Its first and downward wake remaining pure

To a diffusion further from the eye

Than evil's anchorage or man unsure,

And poetry hurts at the source of pain

That the end of life is written in vain.

 

 

Your face came back to me after so long

And you spoke with your eyes reminding me

Of something forgotten in a last throng

Remembered at the end of a journey

Unprepared for, and unheard, my father.

Morning cloud crowns the flaming tongues of May

When leaf full turning loosens the poplar,

Something unsaid that will not go away,

Leaf hold such as the close flight of a moth,

Its delta form a green unstill to live,

Impossible to divide man from wrath,

There is only the time left to forgive.

The sky has flung its foam from shallows wide

The firmament marble on the ebb tide.

 

 

Poetry is a helpless surrender

To a future charged as the memory,

An order of words nothing can alter,

An inextinguishable wish to be.

Equally helpless before suffering,

As such the stammer after earth's beauty

Stunned into muteness, a poet can sing

From the heart's unrehearsed futility,

And pain held as fast closed hands of the young.

There is nothing after the spirit's cry

That rearranging in a makeshift tongue,

Poetry or voice of an unasked why,

Turned to words from courage enough to fear,

Unreachable, their faces disappear.

 

 

Words to turn the wandering spirit round,

Worthless that usage of the heart without,

Meaning is no more than a mirror found

Self- reflecting, its end outlasting doubt.

Poetry is born alone in the breech

Position having no other way out,

Unable to crown its labour of speech

Unless the spirit tears from pain life's shout.

When May broke light the world rolled like a blue

Iris backward at the retina of

Time, for the hours of the spirit are few

And bewildering in a wake of love.

Bach scored two violins as love could be,

Love such as only the spirit can free.

 

 

Over the window glass at Wentworth Place

And London as memory was starless,

Truth before beauty was poetic truth

That exaltation of Cortez and Ruth.

For the urn was largely bravado, not

The whole truth but the senses only, what

Is truth but a man watching a landau

And wondering. Then or now are as though

Immaterial and know not either

Guilt or remorse, mostly we are somewhere

Between hope and despair, mostly between

What chance has done and choice has left undone,

And truth is irresolute as fear is,

Truth is the undone, the undone that is

Done and is starless as memory or

London starless.

 

 

From the ruins of your

Love I am more your daughter, such ruin,

Love was never like this, love is first known

By its own infinity as glass so

Reflected, itself diminishing shows,

From darkness further than horizon's hold,

A mirror in the dark, love is last told.

And you said nothing at the end, nothing

Mattered, though love at the end was something

That mattered and snow was curling in his

Hair, such ruin, love was never like this.

And I am more your daughter than I know

And glass so reflected never lets go,

Her lifetime for a moment held his love.

 

 

I have not written for this world but for

The spirit, remaining uncertain here,

Wondering where the words will come from or

Afraid always when poetry's own fear

Of emptiness leaves me yet with nothing

But time itself in passing and aside,

And words unknown and beyond my knowing

Before an ordinary silence died.

I am no more than the unerring flight

A few birds make of themselves from among,

Carelessly following a new day's height,

August's calm and northward repetition.

I'm tired of my years and the word's owing,

The end no nearer to its first knowing.

 

 

And a time will come when these words will not

Be mine but love in passing must remain

Love whether that of Liu or Turandot,

Trembling before it breaks into a name

Known once or beauty seen from aftermath,

Love once known is held by the spirit fast.

Such a cold it leaves, a planetary path

Where that lost is remembered at the last

As a shadow's inexorable hold,

As darkness only time can consummate,

Where Nature points the way to truth untold

And love, poet or man, is isolate.

Poetry must first unclamp love to start

Dismantling its scaffolding from my heart.

 

 

I have seen a poplar still as saffron,

The colour of high drift and Turandot,

August restless trembles into late sun

And sky nearer than the Thames surface. What

Am I enough to hear Sylvia cry

Or love yet know as once from memory,

What is poetry if the sun must die,

Love in another form if love could be.

The heart is a far uncharted planet

Seen from the light of a star's interval,

La vita è così bella but the heart

Remembered holds the dip of the world's hull.

And utmost yet the way that love is brief

The poplar draws a river to its leaf.

 

 

To learn to love the world that cannot love

Back, and this is a poet's hardest task,

To live without return and to know love

When time is a last struggle to unmask

The glazed eye unflinching from a passion-

Flower's day long late and blue September.

Poplar leaves darkened olive blown begin

To pall and a poem must suffer Nature,

At the fall of the firmament a star

Rayed with the blue of a day from its dart

Of life to the end opens both hands far,

Thrusting bewildered a fugitive heart,

A closed blond hinged over darkness, to fail

Threefold, a seed hold over betrayal.

 

 

I who know nothing of the absolute

Value of words and can only show you

My heart, forborne and yet irresolute

Even as heaven and earth or those few

Moments when their alignment and time on

Hold and knowledge a tardy eloquence,

Where Nature's definitive expression

From love's reach and the heart remembered once,

How from truth and the tumult of language,

A space such as the poplar's night and day

And new words for old outlasting their age,

Poetry is born with nothing to say.

And morning breaks its gold only to flow

Back, impenetrable, through the willow.

 

 

There is nothing this night from which to heal,

Moving indivisible stillness, love

Must be as both being universal

Enough to salvage from a refuge of

Darkened stars something with which to redeem

Nothing, a day's difference, winter's young

Imagination and darkness when seen

As blue transfixed or passing after flung.

The beginning missed is urgent and new

Where winter has grained under bark light, how

In dreams an open road runs straight and through

The heart, its way a waking to avow.

Yet to surrender and to such control

Show me the end before and make me whole.

 

 

How shall I address the world when with you

I could not speak at Garden Avenue

Where roofs ascending slope a downward wall

And the cherry blooms imperishable.

And for four hours you said nothing of her

While I talked to control the utmost near,

The freedom of spiritual murder

And further yet than the freedom of fear.

And more than the unsaid the unwept tears

Of Eden for the knowledge of my years

Or the simple tears that would have saved you.

Beyond poetry, or then and now you

Looked at her in the landau, my father,

And for four hours you said nothing of her.

 

 

Unopened rests the green magnolia,

Trees from the lake raise unapproachable

Horizons, Hymnus Paradisi, a

Blown smoke blown levelling its form while pale

Winter receives the waters of Kenwood.

Less than a day's random, that unlit space

Where earth has sunk its cornerstone, and should

The shadow falter the poet must face,

To follow as once, journeying high snow

And drifts of words along the way to form

Love such as only the spirit can know.

Magnolia unfolding April's storm,

Before the retina from colour seen,

Walls of closed carbon darkness lay between.

 

 

What is the life of a man worth on this

Night of war where Nature waits as before

Calm with stars when time, a token of his

Life, from memory what am I here for

Listening to darkness incongruous

With birdsong over a world no more than

A day's journey, a night the sound of us.

London's blackened boughs without leaf or man

Rust gratuitous pale bark from neon,

Drifting silenced through the new day's bird cry

Indifferent residual saffron.

The spirit is ready only to die

As a poem defiant enough to live

With the hallmark of a last need to give.

 

 

To wake to that first morning after war

And men among distant trees were moving,

The cut sound of a poplar from its saw

And love away from its own believing,

Until and leaving me emptiness more

Than love's denial further than reaching,

To remain rearranging new and raw

And Nature left over open breaching.

Earth's depths nearing traced branched and darkened snow

London domed yellow with snow's reflection,

Palpable only in dreams as the slow

Shadow runs or love's configuration,

The spirit dancing each honeycomb cell,

A poplar's incline branching time until.

 

 

When the early cherry bloomed earlier

Than snow time was a casual repair,

Time as such and less than the space between,

Man is a reckoning of horizon,

Towards or from, and the space of Nature

Random as the purple in the fuchsia.

Distance or the heart, only time is seen

And love, the distance fallen in a dream,

Man less than his own length when distance stalls

And truth no more than where the shadow falls.

No more than your end or the way the green

Rapidity of the century, green

And almost formal at the motorway,

Beat a green oscillation where you lay.

 

 

Before and after and the words untold

And April's leaf dark halo to immure,

But a woman become to walk the world

With an isolate controlling rapture.

Late wind a black tide smooth over branch moan

April sepulchral bleeds magnolia

Forsythia flames in blond abandon

A night cut from stars and Primavera.

While out of the languid featureless dark

And London's high shadow rain softly laid

Its burgeon, to colour first with night bark

And day and passing seem and never fade,

Ordinary, the way of poetry,

Or how impossible love waits on me.

 

 

Dismantled from a dream where cut trees were

Carried from the air to level and core

April opens at mountain fires further

Than the fall of Kurdish children and war.

Emerging bloom whitens on urgent bough

To pall to night clouds’ darkest hemisphere,

Between love and war leaving then and now

That consummation the end has with fear.

Or that of a willow yet pruned exposed

Projecting the highest roof of heaven

Falling calmly dust and shadow, as closed

Space arches out unbroken leaf and rain.

Downward from Kenwood and Parliament Hill

The sun smokes on tree dark impassable.

 

 

Green of the coldest London and April

And sky full unreached grey at the world's shore,

Shadow at leaf start lets its colours fall

Lasting months of uncontrollable war.

Memory obscured yet undiminished

Soars, and with a last leaf crowns its ruin,

As sad green dark forsythia finished

Burns to green aftermath waiting for rain.

How can a poet suffer or be sure,

Experience alone for mentor, where

Donne and Lowell were masters of Nature

And poetry now unrecognised prayer.

From an arc of night and day as shadow

Inexorable light flows the willow.

 

 

The first star leafless at the season's height

Draws through a poplar and an evening's light

The disparate the grey stars of London,

Man and Nature's reach for consolation.

Nature takes her form from a memory

Before time and is governed restlessly

By stars yet man is her shadow, Nature

Subject to itself or as betrayer

But his own refuge, an oblivion

Starless as the heavens' recognition

Or the grey stars beyond his counting. We

Are the children of chance or memory

And the star's journeying, memory makes

The man as the last dark a poplar takes.

 

 

Wind blown at the sky's edge and night moving,

Startling light to the heart of a willow,

And space round horizon's corner turning

Beneath cut leaf the space of love's shadow

Falling from darkness and night leaf open

And surging a star's tumultuous day,

Endlessly enclosed, burdened, unbroken,

Closed willow arching overflowing May.

Beheld happening yet cut and utmost,

The balanced whitened rapid melt of flame,

Cloud drifts marble leaf darkened pearl and lost,

Space unrealised softly wells night rain,

Love's beginning, the end that will not let

Go and love is an infinite regret.

 

Light of the willow, June listless among

Leaf torn disarray, heavy with storm pull,

Arching high collapse, darkness as day hung,

Opening the earth at a willow's full

And plunging hollow and shifting of heft,

Of leaf shuddering blue and hewn surmise,

Morning's black burning through planetary cleft,

Light igniting leaf as flame cindered lies.

And love burned its last within black willow,

Sun dark's vertical still dissolution

Unarched uplifting fused torrential flow,

Blazing existing sacrificial June.

Poetry or love's unfaltering age,

An empty actor on an empty stage.

 

 

 

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