Swift archeress

of exegesis,

Ever piercing to the heart

of dull infinity–

Your sweet rose air.

Your deft facile.

Your gallant stance

against the Autumn sun:

You hear the sound

of silent lips.

You hear the words

of crying fingers.

The children bleed

for the touch of your smile,

And you break at the sight.

 

Dear lady of the open door,

The dotted-i

and mixed metaphor,

Don’t fret the fallacies

of the feckless few.

What you see in the world

as good and pure,

Glows in a golden veil

all around you.

 

Fall 1977