Chord Box: Poems

Chorale: 1979

Chorale: 1979 It feels full, holy—blue ridge white with winter, hills lining up in their habits of snow. So the last place you want is down here in this lot, ledger lines near gone, fine powder under ice. Don’t touch— you will not see her again 30 he says, pulling over as if the eye 𝄐 was a margin to be held. She, head of the band kept time with boots lifting— bound, as in deer, knee-high in the drift. You will not inherit. You lifted, then, herA-line, hand over hand like rope while the next room’s choir was strangely 31 tacit, only rustling robes. Your mother will see to this. You want, now, out—to jump the nearlyburied fence. 32 ...