Regina Coll

Choir

The first,
a necklace worn for days, remarked upon,
it rode a breathing silk,
            a warm cloud.

Because he drew
a splendid web of minutes (between hour and second)
and so fashioned a small tuft of bliss, then placed it between her legs.
And there, St. Peter, pale and tired, smelling of violets and wine explained
she could peek in only, visit glory.
The small bird returned
to her rocks and moss, to the mountain home, the heavy twin,
            and ever-voices pulling, shouting, ranting, whisper
            caught was this choir, voices then to sludge.

Dusty path, clear, narrow,
half-conscious caress and leaf-strewn leading—

stream to gold, streaming.

 

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