From the Undergrowth
New roses flush in the serein
As a black cat stretches for the rake
With its uncertain lean, not far enough—
Good luck, she thinks, like a glimpse
Of a jewel in the sand or
For anything about to happen
But not tied to a load of bricks, a wall of questions
Requiring of her a vision with a locksmith's precision.
She thinks reserve brings the cries of love
Nearer-to-hand, rooted. Whose voice
Beside the cricket's in the lavish growth
Of wild ivy and sunset makes her drowsy, and
Incidentally, lucid with faith
Again? Whose virtue made sooth
Inside her? Credence sinks for the night ahead
When a slivered moon launches a boat for the waves'
Un-spooling in the wind,
The subtlest pearl hers alone to tell.
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