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The Natural World

When I whisper to You,
my mouth is as if filled with bent nails.

When I look to the horizon,
how can my eyes not fall to the wrong I have done?

Prayer. In a forgotten field,
a pile of whithered sticks is covered with crows.

And yet, the sun rising at dawn is not the Resurrection,
and an echo is not an answer.

Your anger is no more revealed in an army
than in an earthquake;

my only peace is the light of the moon on calm waters,
in the depths of night.

Comments

  1. almostgotit says

    Very nice. Yours? 🙂

  2. Almostgotit says

    Hey, Korrektiv ought to be interested in this. And the blogger bringing it to our attention is from Kirkland, yo…

    Here’s a teaser: The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories

  3. Rufus McCain says

    I like how the beauty seems to overcome the tug of despair and doubt here.

    One of your best poems, methinks. I’d like to see it in the pages of The New Yorker.

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