A high, voice teetering

 

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A black and

         yellow eye in a bush

claws into me from red

berries, 

             looking for nightmare, sly

 

truths lived by light,

                                sound

only:  nothing's imagery of

fright and sinew finds its

own warm use for savagery.

 

A sudden country, this,

                                         where

calls of a black bird

can ring a clarion bell

                                         across

claret, golden ash, heard

over       the Parishes of purple

shadows, cloaked hills

                                    of glaucous

incomprehension, fear greening

                        in benign alcoves

 

A call of memory, no

concept,

             wordless and warning, spells

signifying fruits, spiders, warns,

of a cat's striped growls

one hope shared among the one

and many flock,

                      the whole

panoply of shrieks and groans

 

triggering a few acuities of

clear days and darkness, small

flick-locked, drummed necessities of the

quickening, reflections off the bell

imitating quick

               joy's

 

                        simplicity.    I

see the black and yellow

    eye                it sees back

              at me  I

 

am rocked in a trembling cradle.

 

 

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