The face, smiling between space and brain,
invites inside light and rain to the head:
brighter, if no wider, than a spider’s web,
taut with shining dewdrop thoughts.
Every flitting twitch is pretty and bereft,
little is left when the dew is frozen brittle
into words, all that’s heard is the crack of broken ice:
the price of bringing night to the mind’s dewy light.
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Tags: Poetry
