Kaita

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Kaita

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It is sort of colourless,

the Earth. Though

I can hear the voice of spring,

I cannot help being disappointed at the slow

blooming flowers, that grow up

pursing the sun

to no avail.

Then I see the long boneless bodies

of angels

ascending like arrows

into the depths of a starless sky,

and I think to myself that he

who has gone into

shadows, hissing a private song

is much better off with his visible scars than

their invisible wings.

And I wonder, will he come home

or pass like water between unwebbed feet, to the ocean

where all that is written

is washed away with the sand?

 

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Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst

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amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “New Mystics” May 2018

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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