A hard wing brushed past you, touching your hands
but to no purpose - this was not your card.
Mottetti, Eugenio Montale
the telephone is a silence
your voice delivering itself
as a solitude
I cannot read my heart
it is a reticence
on the brink of invasion
the leaves of springtime shiver
under a metal sky
brushed by wings of wire
tangled musics
sweeter and more fierce
than hands can manage
--
Alison Croggon
Blog
http://alisoncroggon.blogspot.com
Editor, Masthead
http://au.geocities.com/masthead_2/
Home page
http://www.users.bigpond.com/acroggon/
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