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Bluebird Madrigal

Bell’s peal made visible, scrap of sky
foreign as ice caves in a foreign country,

or the self one seeks, fingering a postcard,
its crenellated deeps, exotic stamps, hard

-copy post, outmoded as paraffin or ink,
odor of summer, or holy sands of caliche drink –,

Secret bridegroom, thou knowest my wound.
And address it with your ten thousand bruises

as the crocus blade refuses crush of snow.
True, a curtain drops.  But desire’s long.  O,

sail, then, skiff, wherry, ketch, my one and only
ever made for me.  Beyond logic, reason, history,

fly.  Larkspur traveling into cloud-scree.
“Here” is just a part of the soul your body shows to me.

Lisa Russ Spaar


Fall 2017

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