It is not tricks of sense But the time's fright within me which distracts Least fancies into violence
To claim, at a dead party, to have spotted a grackle, When in fact you haven't of late, can do no harm.
What you hope for Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, like that, So neatly that you never feel a thing, The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead And blow your brains out.
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only.
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