© 2016 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press | Selden, NY |
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Below is the first few pages excerpted from the book,,,
What I cannot, a blossom thinks.
My books are ashes in the grate.
I write this carelessly and late
and You have had too much to drink.
The festival jar is lifeless
that has such painted scenes.
The waterdrop is flightless
in shining folded wings.
As I am Yours and in Your train
and cannot speak or else be plain
I the snowflake break a link.
The break is cold with winter pink.
Life has no more Curses.
They have come to me to sew.
I am loved, that is the worst
sorrow I'll ever know.
I with punishments have learned
to show my fans, hide my music
though these and this will, too, be burned.
I for that resent Your Eunuchs
who come like shadows deep at dawn
to steal my papers, break my brush
as I wake and so are gone
with the comets of their shush.
How long will my heart dare
take its powers from the air?
and the world go around
in the silence of my crown?
All we beg or barter
for a day of little things,
all we chase or charter
with a map of Reckonings
the kiss that brings more paper,
what I’ve done for solitude,
the shame has made its pasture
in the heart of widowhood.
Vast the pleasures of this place
in ribbons measured wall to wall
twelve thousand ends lain and paced,
in the snow, my footstep small,
make me remember far from harm
with petals run and trees to climb
I loved the little of our farm
that still could dream and tell time….
$10.00, 45 pages