Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Hart Crane

"...And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave
Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score
Of broken intervals … And I, their slave!
And through whose pulse I hear, counting the strokes
My veins recall and add, revived and sure
The angelus of wars my chest evokes:
What I hold healed, original now, and pure . . ."

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