Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Shanna Nelson

Rain. We are forced to fly,
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
From there. Toward . . .
Onto my frozen fingers.
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Summer bees were saying
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
XX. To the Pole
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Escapees from the cold work of living,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
And Mère Chose's square pollen filter of world, even as they
What is there in the depths of these walls
This gap in time, this season not their own,

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