Gillian Conoley


Pastel ticket,
you are an autoportrait

The Absolutes go ideomotoring

And hours do you burn
on shore

where we woo optic waves
of three damp Kingfishers on rusted car's

prismatic roof—
I love a gone plain

Meadows breathing with difficulty

Ermine Realms of Doubt
Who Never Fears April of Meaning

Or a long shade over a grave

Apple cut into stars
is blind seed

(is young Darwin sleeping under the Redeemer)

(O heavens is recognition)

of a third person come to visit impermanently

Shaped where the clouds disperse I am always with you

on a frontier punctuated with urns we keep

a small garden under middle willow

My hand in the hand your hand

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