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"Letter Seven" by Albert Flynn DeSilver

Is lost within the luck an ox hauls.
Is the word-dug space between shallow

hands. I am not this letter, this ox, nor
the road-crux that ink tills, hauling

vein scrawl across the bleak-
leaking whites of a gathering eye.

Early Street is a place fuming with candor
where soon you will have to face so quietly

you, stewing in your own juices. Remember, a star
in the sky that you can't see, sees you

for all of what you aren't, nothing (wisdom)
and all of what you are, everything (love).

 
"Letter Seven" from Letters to Early Street by Albert Flynn DeSilver. Copyright © 2007 by Albert Flynn DeSilver. Published by La Alameda Press. 

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