A string of bells, a blend of drips, a line
That stretches smoothly. Forms that all our fates
Have curved, have chiraled--all it will define.
Our hands have halted. Feet have formed what failed
Our minds to make. A square blank on the bank
Where ideograms grow and words have wailed
In pink-streaked rounds that slowly rose in rank.
Reflection disappears in depth--you'll drown
In voices--volumes only you can hear.
You grab, you grope, you gently jar the gown
That cooly covers with its cotton fear.
The whelks are weighing on my mottled mind
Until they tell you all you bind and find.
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