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Wood-Cunning

Only your eye, your silver eye,
Seems to have no sex, its deep look
Of dreamy greeting, the sense
Of a small bouquet
In its weaker folds.

Your lips, a glass book
Smelling of the glass,
And of beautiful women resting
Their weight in silver and gold
On your acute youth.

The paths of your voice,
Plentiful and warm,
Make love a second begetting
On a hill near the court, silver-footed
As your preference for unrest.

But the vellum is so buckled
In the apple of your throat,
If your lips were to expire
In a tight dark strap
Tomorrow night,

The echo of having known you,
Chieftain-to-be and amateur poet,
Would travel together with every
Legal and official kissing
Like a spear barely missing a plait of hair.

To view other poems published in this issue please visit Vallum’s website.

Vallum magazine is also available in digital format. Featuring additional content such as: AUDIO and VIDEO recordings of selected poets, further poems, interviews, essays, and MORE!

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