Brigit

from The SONG OF STRAWBERRY 
I have not forgotten, nor will I,
whatever diligence the world exacts
by way of daily lifelong toil from me:
hours of suffering memory survived
in slave camps of the mind,
which are too the world's;
pain of getting one place from another,
carrying stones; the long review of faces
too familiar to remember, of violet eyes
passing out of the world's gray square forever;
a scent of lilac sheets imposed by love
spread across my eyes, sea spume
reticulated as a tree, sublime as sky
in a Japanese or Chinese watercolor;
life that warms extensively
in grace and gratitude; thanking the thinker
or thinking the thanker, who equally warn
of memory's downward spiralling;
the good obligatory debt
we owe to death;
the bridge we cross
to enter or to find another world,
our bodies resonating light like sound,
as sound as light; rare rush and supple sparkle
of splendid corporal values ascending order;
the molecular mosaic that tidies a room;
a living soul's sweep and dance;
how easily love muffles and snuffs out anger;
the brazen way love shakes and folds those sheets;
inspired mists of exhaustion;
infinite meanings of a trembling hand;
cold words like raindrops, incandescent speech;
feelings' fires illuminating books and so the worlds
books reach; night that is spent
putting off the day,
day passed and day to come; all things
we long but fail to find the words to say;
intimacy that terrifies and anoints;
lock step leaving us free;
joy that ushers in a lavender world
since your life touched mine.

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