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(From "Visions of a skylark dressed in black")
The years whistle best
in their own unruly meter.
Like flawlessly planned
intentions
not all of their lines
have agreed to rhyme.
Once, inside a net
crusted over with indigo pearls
I caught a thousand crystal echoes
of gnostics sailing their souls
across an ocean
of overheated eternity
and to this day I funnel
that fire through silvered tongue
and goldplated cells.
Funny how a mountain
can sing like a choir or a
single syllable shock like a baptism.
Gifts of hope and horror washed clean
in a lake of platinum ages.
If life is a birthday cake
let my face be smeared
with its icing of cognac and kindness.
Inside the flickering
of a candle's bright laughter
let me breathe a scent of themes
well chosen and well loved.
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