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Whelm
Luci Shaw (bio)

He who has become and is
forever coming—
site and map and motive,
arena, whelm and wind, apse and
undercroft, silence and song,
rinse and wring, thumb of flame
in a darkened cave.
He who always escapes dimension.
I speculate, wishing it to be faith:
Is He that fur collar against my cold
cheek? Scarlatti on the car radio?
A peony unbuttoning her frilly blouse
for my pleasure?
Tentative, I sketch a loose shape
in the air. But in a squander of
bright wind He escapes.

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