(28.06.1952 / Coventry)

Your Mind Is A Little, Clandestine Pastel

Your mind is a little, clandestine pastel
Shaped into a posture of rigid grief.
Its colors huddle together
And make a stunted, aching lyric. . . .
Ah frail-flowered moment preceding reality-
Your eyelids open; the little pastel dies.

by Maxwell Bodenheim

Other poems of BODENHEIM (112)

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