Feb 162015
 
Burn souls black, my sweet soot, kept
Wept bright,
My dark imagination locked in keyless chest--
What Whitman called his Fancy.

My sour flower, till clear a little
Earth's lintel,
Hades' entryway and heaven's foyer,
Clear this away and that away--

My sprung song, tattle at the gate
Late tales
Turned and tuned until they tell all,
And, revealing all, are all.

My fletched foot, fly sprained
Gain height,
Take the kept chest with you upward--
Soar blazing, my eyes my galaxies.

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