  Why are your eyes like dry brown flower-pods, Still, gripped by the memory of lost petals? I feel that if I touched them They would crumble to falling brown dust And you would stand with blindness revealed. Yet, you would not shrink, for your life Has been long since memorized, And eyes would only melt out against its high walls. Besides, in the making of boxes Sprinkled with crude forget-me-nots, One is curiously blessed if ones eyes are dead. |
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