A magic hour past sunset:
all the blackbirds sing at once.
Did ever Shostakovitch write such
intricate quintets, while swifts
plow furrows of the sky?
The hedge is offering tenderest
roseate growing tips of thorn
to the idea of shears, brambles too
are tempting fate, leaning into space
that could catch and scratch
a blood-bead bracelet on our way
down past docks,
where dandelion clock armadas
better sail soon.
...
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesía"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
