I asked every flower I met
had they seen my palest friend.
The one called world-without-end
shook from its august arrête.
“A blink in the dark, pauvrette,
this business of breach and mend.”
Then to search is only to spend?
A bier in the air, oubliette?
“Fertility’s fraud is forget.
The soil that strains in the eye
breeding nuance, nascence, name
re-blooming a world that will die.
Each grain is a doorless my:
To search is only to same.”
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2008
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.