News Of: Codicils - Poem by Carol Snow
Too many things
one must know -- so many --
a place on the breath for each? each passing?
(its turning -- breath's inmost
turning, my Love --
for delight -- )
'massacre of the innocents.'
And that there is a form
even for that.
tidal -- ardor... fervor... horror... as moon --
There was a moment
of blessing, calm.
Though it was a pause, a hiatus.
'... then what felt like a whirlwind
had risen up
in me, such that
little was spared.'
the unbearable, happening.
Breath saying Now, now.
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