Oct 302013
Deep between the conifers dark as deacons,
And near the thawp and clump and utter of new-born grackles,
And back round the minarets of foxglove like a picket fence,
They slacken their buddings to stars.

But somehow it is vain, with the bloom of universe surrounding,
And my feet cold and sunk in growth,
And the spiritual white and pink-white leaves in bulbs fermenting,
Somehow to lie and breathe into the upwards evening is vain.

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