Waterford
A great honor, not to be read. Crumbles
of lime pelt into bone and memory.
Much obliged turf jostles rocks to symbols
smeared of durance’s tasteful summary.
Green wire, dusked weeds, seed, shelter, kilter
encrypted toward unearthly creation
draw winter’s rigor, while this frost-psalter
throbs somnolent by a vinyl gentian:
There had been names on this unkempt head
whose fixture plots no history or fate.
Strangers mingle. Strange welcomings are made.
Unliving liquid washes the planet.
Grasses climb out of their converted blood
and love strides blandly, dumb, indelicate.
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