1201
works
that are perfect
rhyme
into the unknown
they
have their own light and rhythm
like
the smell of the pages read over again
where
no one has been before
here
is the colour
and
everything said
silence
is deeper than anything spoken
between
of having meant
what
but lie in wait?
all
of this was a kind of foretelling
as
if these words were long known
grown
from the culture of touch
and
of seeing, heard as the ancestor
sound
in our sense
works
that are perfect know us by heart
they
wait for as long as it takes
knowing
that we'll come home
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