Monday, January 31, 2011

Two Poem Drafts


As though I were a twelve-point stag
you've slain me:
though royal in my gloried might
I fell.
These passions in my beating heart
arraign me
before a court of life and death
to tell
of all my soul's desires, which now mount
as blood from forth the hunted heart
will swell;
and yet your bullet leaves me more and more
with joy not lead nor pain nor death
can quell.


The bells ring out with concinny,
how fair and low, how long
they ring of right and wrong,
of truth with time and tintinny;
like crystal charged with ecstasy
they call out notes among
the hills; their voices strong
that, bounded, hide infinity.

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