XLV
What thwarts this fear I love
to hear it creak upon this shore
of the trackless room; the sea, night, lilacs
all getting ambiguous
Who dreams of the black colonnade
Casually tossed off as well
Are dead after all (and who falters?)
Everything turns into writing
I strain to gather my absurdities into a symbol
Every day my bridge
They basted his caption on top of the fat sheriff, "The Pig."
Some "others" were dormants: More water went under the dam.
What excitement to think of her returning over the colonnade,
over the tall steppes, warm hands guiding his eyes to hers.
-- Ted Berrigan, The Sonnets
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