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They open the way this little porth
Fills up under the window:
Quietly unstoppably, but are
Not pulled by the moon, the dullest twilight
Works them deep enough
And the damp imago clambers into the air.
This I had patience for, this I could watch
Through all the starts and restings
And even when they looked to be hovering on witholding
Then my credence
That I had feared dead in its clamped shell
Beckoned them further out.
It bowed me again into the aura of your face
Again into the scent of what it feels like
When love, frail thing,
Forces itself into being seen, the unstoppable
Helpless, the unbelievable
Beginning to be believed
Whose opening scent is like
Warmth off the moon
Or the cold off your face when you entered my house and home
Sweet love, sweet breath of it
From these tall flowers, from their pale faces
Opened on the air, earthy.
From Matter No 6 (2006)