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Temple Solstice

Glinty as spittle,
prink of shortest-day sun

straddles the black ridge,

vault whose ancient pewter speech,
parsed by cloud-cleaved

pulmonary geese, pulsed leaves,

draws me into ohmming hemlocks,
saint’s sleeves,

vulnerable resinous wrists.

Beyond or suffused with pain?
Both. Even the moon

does not speak my language

as many times as we’ve conversed.
Comb me, tricked-up wind.

Quick, before you change your polar name.

from OrexiaFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2017
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Lisa Russ Spaar Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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