CANONS ASHBY
breathing / as the great eye of the soul
spreads, a scab across the forest
approached as bone or mirror-harrow
green ghosts
sleeping in the machine-fields
human breath: in every amplitude
a church flaring gently, (—a gold)
a small oxygen, God’s love-tongue
be one among flesh, a hem, a cup
day’s scab, a plangent smolder
—now
try: this dream-house, opened by touch
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