“Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;” –Quotation from Sonnet 19 by William Shakespeare.
Afore the affliction of past perfection,
By all the mires and their intent,
I’ve met so many long ago—profusion grinned,
And as the stems of the trees and their pale skin,
I’d acclaim that I am dull, and I am.
For that estuary wept, with its mouth tapering,
Tapering into wrinkled sheets and disturbing,
Disturbing the transgressions of sense (and sense display us),
Of the purporting inward jest—still as the inhalation while we talk,
And still, it may be, purporting only as inward
The fall of speech, the fall of patois.
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