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Three Poems by Rosmarie Waldrop


One must think of, but finally, I had to agree, not walk around naked, not in body or spirit. Not write about, when what is a word, at the risk of disconnection, no longer ask. What it would take. Acknowledge the dark, though with dreams in color and. If still possible. Moist skin against the page.


And so ask: winter? this winter? not with writing pressing in. A variety of large and empty, but perhaps only a tone. It needn't bring tears to your eyes. Whereas winter means. The edge of the wood already distances itself. Lightness born of fatigue. Regardless of kisses, snow weighing down. The branches. Not feeling.


Love, lord of. Such a silly and out loud. To disperse a crowd for a sentence when a tulip is a tulip. Not only in Holland. Tried to approach. As if along the edges. But what of the dishevelment and intermittence? I've been living on the verso of. What with ecstatic folly turned to simple thirst? Or positive desire? Slow says the body. Across the dream.