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Oct 13, 2003 15:47

I March Hares

My Irish blood curses me
But also gives me dreams

I fight the drinking, slowly sinking ship
I fight the tides

Inside my blood, a twilight Swift
And moonlight Yeats

By day I sleep or cry
Or eat on hidden words inside my vanish tent

Behind the gates of imagination’s world,
When inks in creeping a nightmare,

Like a bus stop’s bagged dirt scarecrow,
Whose guardianship I’ve tried

And she becomes a welcome sight before my searching whirl,
The gleaming vowels sounding out my burning curls of words

To be flattened on the page is she too
My glistening erogenatrix, my one and only muse?
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