Finial

The Weekend Australian - Review - - Books - Jan Owen

I have your fi­nal smile by rote; free of all for­mer hooks and clasps, I turn the dark­ness like a coat. I turn the dark­ness like a coat and smell the wind sift through quick­lime. Im­mi­nence weights an empty egg, don’t ask for rue and sage and thyme. Don’t ask for rue and sage and thyme, one black­bird in a bush makes spring and when light puck­ers to a point the mute mouth lets the body sing. The mute mouth lets the body sing a cherry sound dis­band­ing dawn for heart’s be­yond this fi­nal flame — who laced the wind with our de­sign? Who laced the wind with our de­sign? Though last good­byes have failed the test and worst makes shift to set off worse, blind worms are flight as yet un­dressed. Blind worms are flight as yet un­dressed: be­low the keyhole of the sky the lichens green their wings with noon. They say the Sphinx has shut one eye.

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