conversations with birds: the swan drifts

(the swan drifts over the reflection of real ruins around which an architect has arranged lake and trees:)

I am not pure enough to believe in
love, its archaic masquerade.  I am
not pure enough to believe its silken
cords won’t fray but

Is there a love otherwise made?  Of stone?
Its architecture, yes, toppled in weeds,
though an entablature on slipped columns
remains to frame the inorderable sky.

I could think:  Marking a grave.  Or
Its austere grace!  What time cracks falls away
to reveal a more essential beauty.

The ruins memorialize themselves.
Two might still walk among them hand in hand.

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About The Odalisque

I am the odalisque who lives in an oblelisk. I converse with birds.

converse. carrier pigeon post.

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