One response

  1. Hi Patrick, I wrote this today. Salvageable? Thanks, Cliff

    Near Death

    I practice the contingency
    And feel in speechless quiet
    The sight of her
    Then close my eyes to practice
    Without sight—and there she is:
    A grove of pine new freshened
    By the spring, nay, in greener
    Greens than any of my youth
    And I near death
    Blind, I gasp— yet serene upon
    The browning mat she lays
    And lies beside me in the shade
    And kisses me in my resting place
    And pulls my tongue between her teeth
    To heaven.


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