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S. R. Compton
The Open Gate
The fence separates the fields,
the open gate unites them.
Yes, it says, come through.
Flow like water in a sluice,
fall over the chasm,
crash on the rocks,
white-water your way
to the distant sea.
All this from an open gate.
I close it, and move on.
Hush
As I walked, my legs turned to sand.
From the ground, the grass
tugged at my fingers.
A boat closed its shell
over my naked skull.
My skin hung from the rafters.
My body was a layer of peat,
soft, dark, and musty.
From far away, a chorale of roses.
Voir Dire
He sits above himself meditating.
The world gleams in darkness.
Words jumble, bridges crumble,
even as he still admires
a girl's bare arms.
And children's pictures;
Picasso, Da Vinci:
None of them offer
the consolations of the cool
and distant constellations.
I say this as a friend,
a hand on your shoulder,
a voice from the jukebox,
a cup of coffee steaming
and gleaming in darkness.
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