Four Poems

But the Larks

Not without violence.
A hinge we dwelt among.
Almost-presence
the eye strains towards.
But it’s the ear
that mutters: ‘friend’.
Among notations.
Among our disconcern.
I have swept the porch
of my not-knowing.
I have crept slowly
up to the blood-psalm.
The ear & the eye,
transubstantiate
in their eternal argument:
who has loved
more, first. As a variation
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