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by Bet Yeldem


it’s circular

              not like a perfected gold band

                       but the rings of a tree

                       natural and wavering

                 a flawed roundness

         within the solid mass that is its shield

her return to romanticizing

him, hymns, the word, the world, anything

but herself

in coming around                  full circle

she never comes far

so mirrors are enemies

she’s yet to defeat

but she sings

in hollows               as if she’s conquered the world

over again              again

she inhales             a pure moment

in cyclical fashion

as if it happens in each of her eternities

                   how can a year be so short and so long

the same way she smiles

only in seasons

she kisses falling leaves

buries them one by one

as near as she can to the cool water

waiting for the turning time                    so  golden

waiting for the new life, the new song, the new

him, hymn, word, world, anything

                   while peeling the dead away

unearthing herself



Posted on 03/23/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bet Yeldem

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