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✦ 49 ✦ Our Thunderstorm The storm, a priest, made lilacs burn And cloaked with sacrificial smoke Both eyes and clouds. Oh try to mend With lips alone an emmet’s sprain. The clang of buckets knocked askew. What greed: too little sky above? A hundred hearts in gutters beat. The storm made lilacs burn, a priest. The meadow’s all enamel now. Its icy azure—scraped away. And yet the finch is in no haste To shake the dazzle from its soul. It lingers at the tub to drink From cups of nectar nature’s feast; The clover’s scarlet, running wild, All splashed with painters’ claret hues. To raspberries mosquitoes cling. But think again, infectious stinger, For here, fanatic, lies your bed, Where else is summer’s joy more red? To raise a swelling through a blouse, And soar—a crimson ballerina! To plant the blade of mischief deep, In blood as moist as dripping leaves? ✦ 50 ✦ Believe my game, and yes, believe The migraine grumbling in your wake! The rage of day is doomed to blaze Like wild fruit on cherry trees. Do you believe? Then now, right now, Bring close your face, and in the glow Of your most sacred summer’s heat I’ll fan it to a mighty flame! I will not keep you in the dark: You hide your lips in jasmine snow, I feel that snow upon my own And feel it melt on mine in sleep. But where to put this joy of mine? In verses, in an octave’s lines? Their lips, by now, are cracked and strained From poisons of the printed page. And, battling with the alphabet, They burn like blushes on your neck. These diversions came to an end when, on leaving, she surrendered her mission to a substitute. ...

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