by George Wallace
your voice old as waves on a baroque beach when the tide
begins its ungracious fall -- or in pine barrens when a forest
of needles which has nothing left to offer the sky but flames —
so, you have begun your inward turning too, your interior voices
filling up the world — in the heart of the sun we all burn greatly! —
last night in the yellow moon rising over accabonac, in burntblack
hulk and huddle of trees, i saw winter take a fresh turn through
the world, measuring death by death's hand — i saw your face,
how uncommon you appeared to me glowing in unreal moonlight —
even now, at daybreak, in the rust of november and scrub oaks
shedding their fog of leaves, how uncommonly true you remain
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