Joseph Thomas


Joy bloods the wanderer at the water's sight,
Our fast of famed sleep stirs, darling, diurnal,-
Hard to bear down, who knows? None is to read
Nor to this illness dreams them; but I can

. . less nakedly malign-loblolly-dull
Back from your death of distance, my lute tossed
Eyes on our end . . . a table crumples, things
Recognition.-But O do not remind
Rebellion, bodies mauled . . . but breaks a snore.
Your shining-out-of-shadow hair I miss
Madness like the tackle of a crane (outcries
Ascend) around to heave him from the foam
No jest but jostles truth! . . I burn . . am led
. . Hallucinatory return to the warm and real

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