The feminine rhythm bends and bows
everything and all without which,
otherwise, there would be
but a barren, dead, old void,
but a rigid, solitary quiet
and no, even if not more
than vague, tenuous notes
to plead and plait and undulate
these letters black on paper white,
brushing off strings on one’s heart
and making them come back live
like a lyric line to a poem roused,
akin to the throbbing swells of night
as they meet our forward-coming pulse.
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