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“Love” Poems For Kathy Number Twenty-Four

PAST

Pale (for the wanded spring) pear-blossom

blossoms white

from a shilly-shallying edge

of pink. I am on the brink, the rim of a wood,

with two mallard and a sorrel pond between me

and the dilly-dallying girl whose dark hair

waves like a plume of black fire. It is here

(where I stoke pyre, hovel, bag mice)

here that the dark nightshade beads its brooding berries

(you are light, my dear, you who almost skate on ice

over these woodlands) – here, though, your past

comes into me like a measured lance.

Ah, do not, do not, offer me so much

with twenty blossoming trees around you so.

Do not. The seed is low.

And I? I only know anger,

recklessness, a bare wire

where the goads of your past

buzz and secrete in the mire.

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Legend

Written by Jonathan Finch

Years Of MembershipStory MakerContent Author

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