Sarah Gridley


          RUS IN URBE

A conscious

liar, an inasmuch reserver of the truth perhaps

you too are a hoarder.  Perhaps no higher than a worm

spinning your march of raw silk shrouds.  Let this


be good.  If the clock is inflicting more points than a cruse

of solar marigolds, let rain be unveiling

your favorite inventory.


Into well’s moss-lit emporium

lower your private damages.  Let no one blame you.  If you lift the sleep

your bones are in

to outlined guardians scorching dark—


Look softly:  Neptune’s methane wreath lets no red loose. Finished seconds

sculpt the hour a shell

of what it was.  Let wind come up to rusk the cells

rake once-demolished crowns and keels.  Impalpable shepherd

you have won:  less crowd

more pasture

Copyright © 2003 Sarah Gridley.  All Rights Reserved.

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