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never-moan moon
bells
Not sly this
damnable
light;
sifts the kernels of it,
unchaffs,
rids of dross, leaden
courier,
mercury-silvered or sun?
Who could know, not
discredited Ptolemy, the
sheer sweep, planet-plunged
night
nor any Greek, nay
Arab, not
fathomed, unplumbed measure
of it
light, brown-drossed, bent-
back trees, brow-
furrowed, bark-laced
silver-whipped,
rain-dripped
curve of it; effable
but not
easy graced
--30—
from a moon moan to the, perhaps, overmodified curve the poem snapped through some intriguing images. Very good...
jim : )
...creamy beauty from this poet, the hand of the god of adjectives. Complete grace of flow!
You write beautifully and the last lines of this poem are stunning.