the month I remember you
as separate . . . as drift . . .
as far and near—the way you
touch both edges of time
with your reach
you would love to hear this
there is that fragment of you
that is all touch
how many years now . . .
how many tears and erasures . . .
Something bends, the night is lonely:
the shivering moon
in the cold water—
FROM DANGEROUS COUNTRY
—Robin Gale Odam
love goes alone to the
depth of ground level at the
foot of a mountain, to the depth
of sea in a brine of tears,
then at the gatherings, among
the tombs, wailing in a confusion
of biblical reference, then simply
weeping in its right mind
THE HURT OF THIS . . .
“What are you thinking,?” he
And she answered, “I am thinking
of your hands that bring such gifts
Is there a rage more
than mine . . .
I feel it rise and magnify
and stir the blood . . .
I give it room.
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