A Bitter Noise

A Bitter Noise

Nothing but poetry forgives
Beauty for being so
 —from Thomas Thornburg’s “Valedictory

Blue rain in winter slides over the purple moss
Where fields find themselves shelved for dross.

Never giving grief for having left the plum to wither,
Many wheat residents flounder, block, then blither.

Denser bursts than darker dancing float
Askew and wish and wash the narcotic boat.

Never on the eve but always past the door
The soothsayer rakes the heat across the floor.

A clear fog wasted in the tundra of rime
Steals across the bedrock of ocean and time.

No, the blue finger will not replace the key
Of murmuring alphabets leaning on the lee.

Yes, the rising rush of rhythm will steal the bone and heart
While all the gathering buds will refrain and live their art.

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