Aug 212011
You stepped from the bus-stop
Into the sun;  it is a death

To know you are gone, are gone. . . .
When the ding-dong bell dong-dings

Is it your foot upon the stoop?
Hi-yii!  My imagination slips out

The door and up to very heaven
Flagrant as any tingling lark

Into sunny realms we'd known
Hours maybe, hands folded

Like wing in wing at rest
From frantic flight, and yet

In that duel quiescence, what recompense!
Silent ecstasies of skies made dense.

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