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by David Matthews

The face of Emily Dickinson
behind a painted window peers
Through parted curtains.
Her lips are motionless, pale,
And her eyes immense
With vision I cannot comprehend
Or contrive to cohere.

I wait for bells that do not ring
In rain that falls on tender leaves
And blurs the marks we fain would read
Or conjure means to have it mean
And ease the fierce weight of mystery.


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