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Poem

    My wound is a beautiful flower,
    cut from the stem of reason.
    It withers, in season, shivering,
    just beyond the nourishing cup.

    Not to be placed in,
    never to drink,
    to dry, to be pressed
    and bound up.

    In wine there is truth,
    in truth Roman pain,
    Wednesday sings sadly,
    again and again.

    But the wine has two flavors,
    one stinging, one sweet.
    Love's flower would drink,
    were the cup not so steep...

    ...were the wound not so deep.

    Scott Jacobs        

© 1979




background image, Icare by Matisse




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