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Wendy French

I’ll never understand nor want to know 

the pity of a song I’ve not yet heard.


Why would I slice my finger on a cracked

pane knowing only a drop of blood


would mark this hand? I am so near

the edge of knowing why one apple


falls before the crop and why a maggot

eats into the core of this one fruit


and not the rest. At night a water-lily

opens up. If I dig my fingers into soil


I’ll find a worm that is afraid of separation

only half a secret remaining.


Sky now reddens to trap night. 

In your last letter you used the word beautiful.


From The Wolf No 10 (Summer 2005)

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