Saturday, July 7, 2012

She was not a woman but a world

She was not a woman but a world
to move within. The birds that rode the air
were thoughts she had, the trees on the horizon
realized her feeling. She was far

beyond the grasp of maps or books or words,
uncaptured by the hands of painters, free
of the yoke of sovereigns. I traverse
her lands, the verdant valleys that unfold

into her gulfs. The wisps of water vapor
moving in her atmosphere—she is
not a woman but a turning world

in spheres. I read her temperate degrees
in quicksilver, the odalisque she is
absolves me of this vulgar vanity.

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