| Light breaks where no sun shines;
|
| Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
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| Push in their tides;
|
| And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
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| The things of light
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| File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.
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| A candle in the thighs
|
| Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
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| Where no seed stirs,
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| The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
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| Bright as a fig;
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| Where no wax is, the candle shows it’s hairs.
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| Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
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| From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
|
| Slides like a sea;
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| Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
|
| Spout to the rod
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| Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
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| Night in the sockets rounds,
|
| Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
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| Day lights the bone;
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| Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
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| The winter’s robes;
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| The film of spring is hanging from the lids.
|
| Light breaks on secret lots,
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| On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
|
| When logics die,
|
| The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
|
| And blood jumps in the sun;
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| Above the waste allotments the dawn halts. |