Tuesday, May 27, 2008



L’inconscient n’est pas pulsation obscure du prétendu instinct,
ni coeur de l’être mais seulement son habitat.

[Jacques Lacan]

She enters sinuously
between the clatter of rainfall
and the silence of thaw
whispering promises to greybeards:

"Do you have an ear for Spring? Do you reverence green? Is your last winter dead and gone?"

At first you humor her, unbelieving
the faintest giggle of any future.

suddenly--she's all there,
laughing maid with overflowing glass
slightly tipsy, exuberant of all flesh.

[copyright EAC ]

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