From Under a Poet’s Bed

I wait for

Corners,           near enough

To gripping,    —to grasp—


From mouth to mouth:




Who now knows such shivers, who speaks me as such?

I did not crave—

But only for that which was


O Come not but here, to speak me at last:

I fade—

            I glimmer—I shade at—at best—at—at—


At night, the words come full,

As Moon grips a passion as full, on a black rise of fools—as Moon as dead.


I wait—and I wait—

for that which rips

And steals cornered poems

From under a breathless poet’s bed.


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