Some sort of rag of pure language, no dictums but a bell sound over clear water, beginning day no. 245 of a good year. The faces made out of leaves and hidden within them, faces that don't want to be discovered or given names by anyone. There was a virgin out walking the night during the plague when the wolves entered Avila for carrion. The first took her neck. The ninth month when everything is expected of me and nothing can be told - September when I sit and watch the summer die. She knelt while I looked out the car window at a mountain (Emigrant Peak). We need girls and mountains frequently. If I can clean up my brain, perhaps a stick of dynamite will be needed, the Sibyl will return as an undiscovered lover. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO ALFRED TENNYSON, MY GRANDSON by ALFRED TENNYSON SHE PASSED THIS WAY by ANNA M. ACKERMANN A SONG ABOUT SINGING by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH SONG OF THE ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON GERARDA by ELOISE ALBERTA VERONICA BIBB THE TWO FLAMES by ELOISE BRITON |