James Merrill (3 March 1926 – 6 February 1995 / New York City, New York)
Then when the flame forked like a sudden path
I gasped and stumbled, and was less.
Density pulsing upward, gauze of ash,
Dear light along the way to nothingness,
What could be made of you but light, and this?
Submitted: Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Comments about this poem (Log by James Merrill )
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