Swans on the Charles, delicate icebergs on steel.

A friend remembers riding a white horse in winter so dark

all he could see under him was the steam caught in first light.

You see, I am not done with the body yet, Mater.

A magnificat tangling in my throat harrows what will not last.

Here is the furrow, seed, the maternal jelly bursting first leaf.

 

 

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