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Elizabeth Bishop

 
Alone, at low tide like this, sheer water is an endless
& flooded argument, beneath that, love: bed, cage,
 
Cemetery-cold conversation, colder air…
Case-drunk days, dear compass, that cannot bring you near.
 
Each bar, each day-end march (so far from over) veers
Fist-first at death, that gentle-going hex, hymn half-
 
Hidden here, hangs, hell, stars in our next wish, you say.
Hammered house guest, I rip each clock apart instead,
 
Ink lit hours when night makes us juries, greets our eyes,
Little love-letter lessons, like black birds, sleep, lies…
 
Like coats of wet whitewash—moving from left to light.
My map, my saving grace, now can you see moments
 
Of breath? O off-course patience, pleasure pulls back pink
Quick-caught curtains, questions travel, remembers rain
 
Towards morning—stray suicide song, street dreams forgot.
Still dark, this time thank-you note art is not my home.
 
Under our window, untitled congress, belief visits,
Waits (wasted view, minutes), wants one word with you: yes.

 

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