“O absence makes the heart grow fonder,”
wrote Thomas Haynes Bayly in his song,
Isle of Beauty—and the state that stalks
the lonely strikes as an act of psychopomp,
who leads away and far off—
instead of letting us dally and abide;
oh, isn’t then the state of absence
a way of sending its own captive off,
just as the state of being seems—
to give itself away, to fold? Till a word
brushes another word, and the word
becomes a name, and the name—
a Muse’s shade, a falling silhouette
caught—and fastened to its ray.
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