(Image by George Desipris)
I lied to you
and kept back one bowl,
a gleaming one,
ancient enamel.
The rim is drawn
in kufic cursive,
the colour dark
burgundy, leaded.
The lines, to me,
speak as they want to--
I cannot read
them, nor they themselves--
open, then, but
not vacant for the
mind takes, on them,
reifying turns.
I kept it back
as a heritage
and I held it
after you were here,
and I loved it
as a kind of a
sanity, or
enclosure in red.
But there, then, take
it and smelter the
thing, let me be,
those are the rules now;
though have my thanks
for a moment more--
it's well to be
the last thing to go.
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